A walk Down The Lane

A fresh September Sunday morning and we set off down the lane. You have changed from your skirt into jeans and boots, wisely as it turns out, and I have my coat and hat on.

Either side of us the verdant hedgerow is lush with leaves and hawthorn berries, the last of the blackberries, and those delicate purple pink and white flowers that remind me of sweet peas but aren't.
At the metal gate we stop to feed the two horses the carrots and courgettes we have for them. One of them, the young playful black one, tries to take the bag with the food in but I am wise to him now and keep it out of his reach. The older white one nibbles at your sleeve as we stroke their long faces.
Then we continue to the boarded up cottage at the end of the lane, the witches cottage we call it, and as usual fantasise about what it must be like to live there, and who the witch was.
To your delight the overgrown path beyond has been cleared and so we carry on, into the marshland alongside the river. We have to lift our legs higher than usual to walk through but it is worth the effort. We both agree it is better than the gym and I say it is like the army yomping on some training exercise.
High up on the horizon to the right a white house stands like a lone sentinel, surrounded by trees, and there are more horses in the field. Too far away for the few carrots I have left in my pocket and they don't seem to notice us anyway. We have seen deer in this field, but none today though.
We follow the river as it bends round sharply to the left, the cows on the opposite bank watching us closely, and keep walking as is straightens out, the cows now behind us and more green stretching out ahead. I make my usual silly jokes and you laugh anyway. You always do.
By now it has started raining, making little splashes on the river, and the grass is slippery underfoot. But we don't let it stop us.