As I cut the lawn I disturb a frog in the border which, in a few lolloping hops, heads over to the pond.
House Martins circle, a reminder of summer; but they're not showing much interest in their nests today.
With a stack of letters to post, I walk across the bridge. A Moorhen stalks through the debris on the silt island with the mincing precision of a schoolmaster invigilating an exam.
As I'm sticking stamps on the post office, I hear of an accident. A driver was turning around his van in a tight corner. Suddenly the van lurched through a wall and stopped, overhanging the pub car park. Luckily he wasn't hurt. He'd been surprised when a wasp flew into the cab.
By evening it's the Midges as much as anything else that make us decide to eat indoors.