I was driving down the road the other day and the leaves, of every hue, were exploding around me in a three-dimensional carousel of gargantuan scale. Even the leaves on the road were moving in a whirlpool of agitation. It was awe- inspiring.

I had a delivery of wood chippings to put on my yard. They contained a quantity of leaves; mainly sycamore, but the wind was sending them scurrying off over the mire, much to the delight of Fair, who is fascinated by them.

She is a strange dog, and has her own little ways. She is very independent. After an hour or so of leaf-chasing she brought me in a trophy, a solitary sycamore leaf, and dropped it at my feet with great pride. Of course I praised her to the hilt, and she sat guarding it for ages. She was almost affronted when Brillo brought in half a leaf, and in the end I had to surreptitiously hide them.

As autumn advances, it brings with it the most stunning colours, not just the leaves, but the skies and also the most vibrant rainbows. One minute there are grey clouds chucking rain down in stair rods, the next a brilliant blue sky with white fluffy clouds. If there was truly a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, my mire must be stacked with it.

The other day the sky was covered with the altocumulus clouds that look swabs of cotton wool. Another day it was a mackerel sky, cirrocumulus clouds, that were tinged with pink and gold.

I was sent a gift this week, from a 98 year-old reader. She had knitted me a super woolly hat, which I am already using. If I can knit that well at that age, I shall be well pleased. Thank you. I am so fortunate to have so many friends and well-wishers. I am frantically trying to spin two alpaca fleeces and then knit two jumpers from the wool by Christmas. The one thing I am always short of is time. I love spinning Alpaca, it is so fine and soft, but it takes an age. After work I have my farm chores to do, such as checking the sheep, feeding the birds and arguing with the goats about who inhabits the feed store.

I have been an admirer of Henry Brewis for some years. He wrote a wonderful piece about a farmer who took a holiday, the first in many years. The trouble with keeping animals is that you cannot just take off, so holidays are rare, especially if you are on your own. I have worked out that I have not had a proper holiday for 15 years, so when an elderly family friend asked me to go on a cruise as his carer, I snatched at the chance.

Another friend has offered to farm-sit, so I am off on a big adventure (to north Africa and the Mediterranean). I intend to really make the most of it. Consequently, there will be a break in my diary for at least a couple of weeks, as a trip round the Mediterranean is hardly a Dales Diary!

The trouble is that I had no suitable clothes to wear, so I have, for the last few weeks, been acquiring things like long dresses, evening shoes, cool tops and some new, and respectable underwear.

I have also purchased a digital camera, and once I have worked out how to use it, which might take me a while, I shall be able to capture some of it to remember.

I am trying not to get excited, but for me, it is certainly different. I will miss the dogs in particular, but they will be in good hands.

I recently drove up to Greenhow, to see someone there. Always, as I pass Dibble Bridge, just outside Hebden, I have experienced a chill, and a little research has told me why. I was looking through a book that my brother gave me, and was startled to discover that Dibble Bridge was the scene, in 1974, of Britain's worst road traffic accident. What surprises me is that there
is no memorial or acknowledgment of the fact that 33 people died there.

Certainly, those souls are far from forgotten, by those who were here then. Upon inquiry, I was told all about it. The whole area has a strange feeling, but the reservoir nearby, Grimwith, is very lovely.

I get a similar chill from the bleak, windswept moor above the house. On a winter's day, it can be very eerie. I can almost feel the presence of the miners who worked there many years ago.

I learned something rather interesting the other day. The cobbles in the square in Grassington are not as old as I thought. They were collected from the river bed by local volunteers, to be laid to replace broken ones. They do look very charming. Grassington is lovely both physically, and as a community. Every year we have three Grassington Dickensian Saturdays running up to Christmas, when the village is invaded by thousands of trippers. With the Christmas decorations and so many people it becomes a different place to the normal sleepy village. I shall be back from my jaunt in time to experience the first one.

I had a visit from a delightful Australian couple, who had written to say they were coming over here. They get the Yorkshire Post over there in Albany, at the bottom of Western Australia.

I had no idea I was known about so far from home. It was as if we had known each other for years, and I really enjoyed their visit.

He was born in Leeds and felt the need to return to Yorkshire, a true Yorkshire man. This county seems to call to its sons and daughters wherever they end up. This I can understand, Yorkshire is a wonderful place.