I once had a jumper knitted from multi-coloured wool that people thought they could see 3-D pictures in. I washed some knitwear last week and hung it by the stove – we couldn’t get to the kettle without pushing through the damp green sleeves, Rob said it was a knitted forest.

I’m still walking round the edge of Wales little by little, and each time I go back the seasons have shifted just a bit.

The trees were waiting like cathedrals on Offa’s Dyke, but not all of them were naked. Valleys to the west were cross hatched with bobbles that threaded the green with old gold, and some of them had trembling yellow crowns.

Up on the cinnamon moors an owl surveyed the tussocks from a rock. Most of the heather flowers are husks now but there are still a few pink buds where the black grouse are hiding.

The fields are peanut butter, the lanes and canals are copper beech, and the red Clwydian hills are knitted with ochres and smokes.

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