Posted by Tania Kindersley.
Two hundred and sixty miles down; two hundred and forty to go.
I was going to give you all chapter and verse about the amber morning light and the mist rising off the Dee like a sleeping animal and the sudden, vulgar pink clouds that appeared at Forfar and how the sky was the colour of honey, but I am too tired, so I can't.
Instead, there is this:
Look at those colours. Those are the crazy hills of the Lake District. And one rather charming stone house near Kirkby Lonsdale.
The hills here are decked out in extraordinary finery, but there is nothing to match the Scottish trees, and I am not being chauvinist when I say that, it's just observable fact. Something extraordinary has happened to our trees this year, I never saw colours like it. I no longer am envious of people who live in New England or wherever it is they have the famous leaves and everyone comes from miles around. In England, almost the moment you cross the border, there is some good leaf action but nothing to what I saw just north of Perth.
Can you tell from my stilted prose that I have been driving for too long? This is what I saw from the motorway:
That's just the motorway. Imagine what happens when you go off piste.
Now I am going to sit very, very still.
PS Thank you so much for lovely comments from yesterday's rather flaky post. You are dear, dear readers and I appreciate you keenly.