Bog Myrtle & Peat

Every time I think I have seen the last swallow of the summer, others appear. There were five youngsters still hunting over the loch below the house yesterday afternoon, and they seemed very out of place in a world of falling leaves and frosty mornings. I have fingers crossed for them, but they are at least providing some interest in the final few hours and minutes before the nation is invaded from the East by Viking hordes of fieldfares and redwings.