There's been a seasonal transformation in the ravine. It has been gradual, taking place over a prolonged period of several months' time, as summer departed and fall arrived. The months of September and October are colourful and the changing landscape has offered us the usual visual treats, but there's an air of sadness in the tranquility of autumn variations from bursting green of summer to the final transition sans foliage, awaiting the arrival of winter.

And now that we're embarked on the days of November with dwindling daylight and the almost complete denudation of the urban forested ravine, that melancholy tinged with nostalgia is palpable. The woods, though as welcoming as ever, look sere and stark in their nakedness. Underfoot, the piles of detritus, the dried foliage and needles, the fallen bits and pieces trees' discard urged on by the wind, fight a valiant battle to keep the forest floor tidy, but to no avail. Night-time frosts giving way to day-time surrender to more temperate temperatures result inevitably, aided by frequent rains, in the trails in the ravine hosting muddy puddles as the clay foundation refuses to dry.

Invariably, while we make our long circuit along the intersecting trails in the ravine as is our daily wont, my husband recalls so many events that have impinged on our lives and he probes his memory to bring them fleetingly back to life. I had remarked earlier in the day that because of the decided chill in the air I thought it might be a good idea to resurrect our cooler-day menus, and had thought of making French onion soup for dinner along with a vegetable salad and dessert of sliced fresh strawberries. That provoked him to recall the first time he had ever tasted that soup, in the dead of winter when driving conditions were dreadful and he found himself deep in the northern part of Quebec. At a small restaurant close to the hotel where he was staying on work-related business, he was introduced to French onion soup; a perfect remedy for a blustery cold day, he thought at the time.