Yet again i witness the autunn leaves turning bronze then gold. It was early November, yet the sparse woodland trees lavished a feast of colour. The seasons of Britain always tend to confuse me. Winter becomes mild, and summer often wet. What induces me to linger in a landscape of passing cloud shadows? Am i so bewitched by English countryside hues, that my soul must constantly shiver. What master am i the servant to, that deies my wild drinking from the grape harvest of south sun vines. One of my own making of that i am sure.