Peter Reynolds

Morning mist, a  September Sunday in the valley between Sutton Poyntz and Osmington.

The sun is already high in the south east.  But in the steep sided valleys, mists meander around in the growing warmth.

Autumn colours are beginning to develop and the mellow fruitfulness is in full bloom.  One of the many local birds of prey pulls off from teasing the lowly rooks and flys up to a taller perch.

The grass is soaking wet with dew as if a huge cloudburst had just passed by . Everywhere there are hundreds, thousands of glittering cobwebs. As your angle of view changes on a moorland bush another hundred thousand catch the light and another and another.

High above, great V-shaped skeins of canada geese are heading south west for the Lodmoor and Radipole reserves.  As I raise my imaginary Boss over-and-under and swing onto the leader they break formation.  They tumble and dive, all order destroyed.  Like a pack of Messerschmidts and Focke-Wolfs set upon by Spitfires and Hurricanes, they spray apart in random escape

Portland is invisible but there is a flotilla of racing sailboats in the bay and a pair of jetskis zooms past at full throttle. The Weymouth lifeboat, out I hope on exercise, carves a huge half mile circle of wake.  In the background a giant tanker stands guard at the harbour entrance

It is time to play mountain goats and so right to the very edge of the precipice run the dogs.  A moment’s pause then down they go slippering and skittering in pursuit of another rabbit.