A short walk in the local country park this afternoon, through the woods and along the river, where everything looked a little grey and subdued and slightly muddy underfoot. And along to the formal gardens, stripped bare of autumn's late blooms, with a few splashes of colour in the greenhouse to brighten the gloom.
I stopped off at the café for a cup of tea and a mince pie, the first of the season. At least, the first proper-sized one, having had a miniature pie at the work Christmas dinner. (Rather miserly, in my opinion, not to get a full-sized specimen, but what can you do?)
There is something unique about mince pies, a combination of tastes and textures which conjures up Christmas in a way that nothing else can. Except maybe Christmas pudding . Or even Christmas cake. Basically the same ingredients packaged differently, but it somehow works.
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