I walked out past the college where G teaches, round the old road that used to be the main road to Barmouth, but now only leads to a special residential school. It was twilight, the air warm and moist, smelling of damp earth, decaying leaves and the rank musky smell of the rams who were trying to interest a harrassed looking ewe in sex.
It takes an effort not to sink into melancholy at the heaps of brown and yellow leaves and the memory that these were the fields where I used to keep my pony. This quiet lane is where I used to ride him when I was breaking him in.
Further on the steep climb up the footpath leading to the golf course holds no such melancholy memories, only the memories of countless walks, all now blurred into one, except for one winter walk after a particularly wild storm when I had to clamber over and through several fallen trees. The chunks of branch and trunk still lie tumbled in the grass in places.
I said hello to the young cattle, which actually let me pass within a couple of feet, though they were one side of the fence and I was on the other. I think they read my preoccupied body language and purposeful stride as not a predator or, if a predator, not one in hunting mode.
By the time I was heading back down into town it was almost full dark, but by then I was on the hill with streetlights. Once past the junior and infant schools it was just a few minutes more to come down over the bridge, dodge through the edge of the industrial estate, past the church, with the clock faces glowing like yellow moons up on the bell tower and up the final hill to the home straight.
Time now to make dinner and relax for the evening.