Fisher & Paykel are known as innovators in the appliance industry and for good reason. Their inventions include the extremely popular Dish Drawer dishwasher and the Smart Drive system used in their washers and dryers. Fisher & Paykel were also the original manufacturers of a single top/bottom mount fridge with water dispenser and the first to produce a top load washer with a 4-star water rating. Alongside these innovative products they also manufacture a large range of quality fridges and dryers. Fisher & Paykel's technological advancements and their unique characteristics have made them a household name in Australia and abroad. In fact, the Smart Drive™ clothes washer - which for the first time used a Brushless Direct Current Motor - was the flagship product that paved the way to brand recognition in Australia.

I've no recollection why it was four years ago that we went shopping for a new washer and dryer not where we would generally tend to select our kitchen appliances, but to another place altogether. It was one that we knew had been in business for an awfully long time, and perhaps they had been advertising special sales on appliances. We were faced with the necessity of replacing our old set because they were on the verge of breaking down entirely and had been repaired too often. And we thought we should be looking at more energy-efficient machines.

Which was what brought our attention to a Fisher & Paykel set of clothes-washer and dryer; expensive and entirely electronic, so we did wonder what we might be getting into. However, both were energy efficient and although the washer was a top-loader it was a high-efficiency appliance nonetheless. We made the purchase and awaited delivery. I did do some preliminary research on the Internet and thought that complaints about intrusive and frequent sound alerts when the washing machine was out of kilter, didn't sound too serious as a deterrent.

So we had them delivered, and first thing we noticed was that the dryer shell had been slightly dented and chipped, so we alerted the seller, and they assured us they'd send on a replacement. One putative replacement after another arrived hugely dented; the first one when it was unpacked by the deliverer, so badly out of whack the door wouldn't shut securely, and the second was no better, so we decided to keep what we had.

I soon came to understand the complaint about the sound as I became acquainted with the chirps the washer regularly emitted when a load went out of whack which it did one time out of three loads, necessitating response and readjustment of the wash. We had taken out an extended warranty above the usual one-year warranty on purchase, and several years later called on it when the washer began leaking into its interior. The store had gone 'out of business', declared bankruptcy. But it opened under a new name, same store; different name. They agreed to honour the extended warranty and sent out a serviceman.

A month ago the washer began leaking again, but we were out of luck with service since the company decided it could no longer 'afford' to extend service, despite we had paid for it. So my husband installed two little turn-off valves for the water on the pipes going into the washer, so it no longer leaks. A week ago the dryer stopped its heat function, though otherwise it responded in whirling the wash about; simply no heat however.

We called one of the few appliance service businesses in the city that can look after this brand of appliance. And yesterday the serviceman arrived. A frail, elderly looking man, very affable, and remarking that the company certainly didn't make it easy for repair personnel to reach its interior mechanisms. It was mid-afternoon so we invited him to take a cup of tea with us and relax preparatory to work, since it was obvious he'd been working elsewhere up to then, and he obliged, and we chatted.

When he put the dryer through the electronic phase that self-diagnoses it cheerily responded that nothing at all was awry, puzzlingly. Our doughty serviceman made a few calls, and then proceeded to take the metal skin off the front of the dryer, revealing its interior and its controls matted with dryer lint. Despite that I assiduously empty the very generous and never-full lint bucket, it soon became evident that dryer lint is not completely caught where it should be for user disposal, but filters down through the machine and settles on the air intake and controls. Causing, in this instance, the machine to rectify the situation by closing down heat rather than burn out the functional part and possibly cause a house fire.

Some advanced technology that is. Resulting in a charge of almost two hundred dollars to clear lint from the interior of the clothes dryer. Now that everything has been cleared, the dryer is operating at full capacity. I cannot recall the last time a load dried so efficiently; swiftly and completely dry. I no longer must scatter half-dried items about various places in the house to ensure they're sufficiently dry to be put away.

Would I ever commit to another appliance produced by this company? Hugely unlikely.

Two weeks ago this day we were in New Hampshire, visiting the Waterville Valley site that we have returned to for decades, first with our teen-age children, and now on our own for the last twenty years. The area never ceases to give us immense pleasure even though we are now no longer able to climb the summits we once 'conquered', in our love of the landscape of the alpine regions and the vast, interminable scene of mountain tops marching on the lofty arras as far as our eyes could see....

The day dawned overcast, not too cool, 61-degrees Fahrenheit the high. We drove to one of our old haunts that used to serve for us when we and our children were young, as a foretaste of the more physical struggle it would take to clamber atop challenges like Lafayette, Eisenhower, Clinton and Little Haystack. Now, the Rattlesnakes represent the far more modest hiking aspirations that we can hope to achieve. We do the climb, along with many others, enjoying the Autumn atmosphere, the fragrance of fall, the splendour of the foliage at their height of perfection, and the sheer pleasure of being within the embrace of nature.

On the way there, the highway foliage of the forests were nothing short of spectacular. We discovered though at that point it was two days beyond the advent of a long national holiday week-end, that there were abundant numbers of other hikers, and among them plenty of old geezers, like us. At our age the intent to climb is mildly fraught with physical difficulty, but it is not a particularly arduous climb.

My husband's newly-bought hiking boots performed excellently. We took our time ascending, taking photographs as we proceeded and appreciating little Riley's determination to maintain our progress.

The sight lines from the lookout just prior to reaching the summit seem somehow more appealing than those of the summit itself, perhaps partially due to the fact that not everyone knows of its existence, and we were able to enjoy that set-aside area to ourselves. As usual, when we're ascending/descending such natural attractions we strike up friendly conversations with others doing likewise, and somehow in a matter of a relatively brief period of time, come away with other peoples' life stories; brevity of time can still convey a great deal, people appear anxious to explain themselves to others, strangers seem to have that especial appeal.

On the descent, Riley almost danced down the mountain slope, happy and excited to be there. It's true that he becomes bored anticipating the same old circuits he has been familiar with for all of his life, when we embark on our daily ravine walks.

She is so dedicated to her dream of attending the best university that Canada has to offer, to follow her ambition to become a lawyer, a criminal lawyer no less, that she is distraught at the very real possibility that she will be unable to find herself at one of the universities of her choice. She is overly annoyed at the fact that the school guidance counsellor assigned to her high school grade level has been of little assistance to her. She speaks of her aspiration to attend Osgoode Law School, and he speaks of the wonderful curricula available at Nipissing University.

She already lives in the backwoods of Ontario. She has no interest in spending her life in any rural area. The city calls out to her. She has done her due diligence, checked every resource available to her, from Macleans magazine's yearly university ranking edition, to everything available on the Internet on Canadian universities and their law programs, to the literature produced by the universities themselves.

She is very well aware of stiff competition for desirable university spots. She knows she must have exceedingly good marks, present a high grade-point average to be able to successfully apply. Her marks in most of her subjects are in the mid-to-high 80s and in the low 90s. With the exception of math, which infuriates and mystifies her. Last year she received some tutoring and her math teacher aided her to enable her to get a mark of 74 in math. This year, her university-course is in math statistics and although she hoped it would help to bring her through, it has proven to be as confoundingly difficult for her as previous math courses. No tutor this year, but a sympathetic math teacher willing to help her at the lunch period, but it seems to be that she is destined to squeak through, which will certainly bring down her grade-point average.

And she despairs.

She is passionate about attending university. She wants to receive the very best exposure to a good, sound education in Canadian law and specifically criminal law that is possible. Attending a prestigious university guarantees she will have guidance from the very best teaching staff, she has convinced herself. And that would have the ultimate effect of not only providing her with the opportunity to become a really good, effective lawyer, but it could open opportunities for good employment.

She queries her distanced two uncles half-heartedly; their experiences throughout their university years in obtaining doctorates lead them to express opinions to her that don't quite mesh with her expectations, despite that she is so big on "reality". Life can seem fraught with blockages to attaining one's heart desire when you're only 17, looking toward adult maturity and fulfillment in a profession that has appealed since childhood.

My mother was the youngest of three sisters. All three were sponsored by an uncle who had previously moved himself and his immediate family pre-World War II from the Pale of Settlement in Russia to the United States, where he and his family became American citizens. Their success in removing themselves from a society which was famous for its oppression of Jews, encouraged others in their more extended family to follow his example. But whereas he had the wherewithal to emigrate, they did not. So he paid their way.

We two girls, offspring of two sisters, resemble our mothers. The two younger of three sisters.

The three sisters, little more than emerging adults at the time in their late teens, voyaged to Canada to make their future lives there, with hope and aspirations to find a better place for themselves. They spoke Yiddish, Russian, Ukrainian and Polish. Then they learned English. (When I was a child I was embarrassed by the immigrant-quality of my mother's English. My father's was never accented by any of the European languages he had acquired a proficiency with. Eventually that 'accented' English disappeared into a fluid use of the language.)

It took the sisters decades of careful saving to finally pay off their debt to that uncle who lived in Georgia, U.S.A., but each of them made good on their debt.

The two younger girls eventually settled in Toronto, while the oldest married and made her home in Hamilton, Ontario. That family would eventually decide to move to the United States, leaving only the two younger sisters in Canada. I would see my cousins from time to time, but not all that often; three boys born of the oldest sister, and a boy and a girl born to the second oldest sister. While I was my parents' first-born, I was years younger than all of them, but one.

I adored my aunt's children, the boy and the girl. The girl was four years older than me, the boy two. And since both their parents worked at tailoring at Tip Top Tailors, those two children had the run of the streets. I was both appalled and intrigued when I began to understand that although I had certain freedoms as a young child to be on my own in the neighbourhood where we lived, something that would most certainly frighten current parents, my two cousins, to use a phrase that might have applied to some degree "ran wild".

They did things I would never have thought of doing; free spirits, free to wander wherever they wanted, to experience life quite prematurely related to their age. I envied them and I feared for them. I thought they were the most audacious, beautiful, romantic young people I would ever know. I still recall my then-fifteen-year-old cousin on a rare occasion when she was sleeping over with me, whispering to me in the bed we shared that she aspired to become a mother as soon as she possibly could. No mention of marriage, just motherhood and I was scandalized.

She eventually had six children, one after the other, starting with the first one born when she was sixteen. Their father was a gadabout, sometimes living with my cousin, more often not, in a flat in a large three-story house that my aunt and uncle eventually bought in the High Park area. They never married, and doubtless he never supported his growing brood. Eventually my cousin found a man with whom she could share her life, a tall young immigrant from Holland. They had a child together, making for seven children in that family. He died about five years ago, after they had shared a half-decade together.

I haven't seen my cousin in at least 45 years; our paths just never seemed to cross. We did exchange letters and telephone calls, which she initiated, before his death, bringing me up to date on how she and her children were faring. Very well, indeed on that score. Out of those seven children she has innumerable grandchildren.

Yesterday evening, just as we were finishing up with dinner, the telephone rang, and there was an old familiar voice on the other end. She is now 80 years of age, her oldest child is 64. She has travelled extensively; to Holland repeatedly with her husband, to Italy several times, to Australia as well, where her oldest daughter lives, and many other places that intrigued her. She is the kind of person who is enthralled with life, a perpetual optimist, bright-eyed and enquiring. She would now, she confided, like to take a long river trip in a ship quite unlike the great ocean liners that now ply the oceans like small cities. She would like to visit Russia, to go to where our mothers had once lived.

Despite her age, she well might do just that. Did I mention how talented she is? She paints delightful scenes in bright palettes of glowing pastels. She still owns a modest little getaway in Florida, and she's planning to launch herself into another three-month stay there before winter sets in. She's just moved into a new condominium, having finally sold her country property with its wonderful gardens, and she finds it like living in a small village; she has acquired friends everywhere.

Yesterday was a positively filthy day, in the most negative of terms, as far as weather is concerned. It was cold, windy, and heavily overcast, incessantly rainy and utterly miserable. Since the forest canopy is no longer in residence in the ravine there was not even the optimistic tendency for us to gear up for rain and venture out into the ravine, notwithstanding the weather. It was raining too heavily, blowing everywhere, to allow us the comfort of a ravine walk. And so we missed out on one, yesterday.

We should have known, actually. Invariably, on the very day that those who arrange such things, feature the annual Autumn antique show now held at the Fieldhouse of Carleton University, this is the typical weather that prevails. If I search my memory of all those times we've ventured out to attend that antique show it is in such weather. So off we went, marvelling during the drive downtown, at the ferocity of the rain and the grimly threatening darkness of the clouds overhead, seemingly layered with malevolence toward all living creatures below.

Traffic was busy, and the drive to the site is always a little complex-seeming, but we did arrive, much earlier than we usually do, since the matter of our ravine walk was settled in such a negative manner. It was interesting to note that unlike the spring antique show there appeared to be more dealers. More dealers, unfortunately, of items like 'vintage' clothing, jewellery both fine and collectible representing days gone by in showy costume jewellery. And the usual pottery, glassware, silver and paperweights, odd bits and pieces that people discard and others collect because they appeal to our collecting instinct, somehow.

We greeted some long-familiar faces, among them dealers from the Montreal area whose wares are expensive, and elite in the manner of what they represent; fine objets d'art of an appreciable quality and far beyond our pocketbook, but certainly deserving of our admiration. We saw icons and bronzes, paintings and porcelains, ivory figures and jewellery of fine distinction and outrageous pricetags, that always leave us wondering who in this city buys these desirable things; certainly not us.

The show wobbles between the unique and the rude in its offerings. And then there's the in-between, objects of beauty and fine workmanship harking back to an earlier day that also elicit our admiration, their pricetags more representative of what we are able to afford. On this occasion several sellers of Canadian paintings of 19th Century vintage that we're familiar with, were present with a selection of such paintings. We were glad to see them, because they are all who are now left of the many such dealers who were accustomed to coming out to this city for the semi-annual antique fairs. They no longer come, because though the city is awash with those who can afford such desirable objects, they choose to put their investment in acquisitions of rare distinction elsewhere.

Furthermore, moaned one of our acquaintances -- who had scant hope of selling much but dragged himself and his paintings up to the show from Toronto in the remote expectation that a miracle might occur and a few of them might be sold -- the younger generation is not interested in paintings and antiques. Leaving hope in the fact that the older generation who formed the backbone of his business might still be interested in acquiring them. But the older generation has already acquired all that their homes and incomes might accommodate, besides which they're more discriminating, and a painting has to appeal mightily almost viscerally, to loosen their determination to merely browse and admire, not acquire.

On Tuesday the fifth day of our trip to the Waterville Valley in the White Mountains Presidential Range of New Hampshire, we continued to enjoy mid-October weather that was surprisingly benign, allowing us to enjoy our various trips into State and federally-administered parks. Because of the situation in the United States with government shutting down all its services as the Democrats and Republicans had a hissy fit of almost unprecedented proportions, leaving the nation in a state of perturbing dysfunction, the forestry office that we would visit on such occasions for a permit to park environments was closed and we had to make do without one.

We woke again to a heavily overcast day, though I had been up through the night of a restless sleep, a pattern that I hoped would not continue forever in our stay there. At one juncture I drew the bedroom window curtain aside to look up at a dark, dark sky. Close above dangled large scintillating stars. When I heard my husband wake some time later and make his way to the bathroom, I suggested on his way back to bed that he too look out the window and share with me the wonder of a truly dark sky, one unblemished by the light pollution city dwellers like ourselves are accustomed to.

Reminding us of different types of conditions in wilderness areas we'd experienced over our adventuring years, sleeping in a tent on the side of a mountain, camping beside a lake in a great forested preserve, where we'd had the pleasure of seeing the sky without human interference, a huge treat we enjoyed together years ago.

We returned after breakfast for a hike at Smarts Brook trail, this time the landscape ours alone since the day before traffic was heavy with people returning to Boston and other cities from their brief holiday sojourn in the White Mountains over the Columbus Day long week-end. We dawdled to our hearts' content, taking photographs, talking nostalgically between us of the many years we had been returning to this wonderful natural landscape.

And then we set off for a long drive to the southern part of the State, past Concord, then Manchester and finally arriving at the small town of Milford to once again visit the Antique Co-op market that we had been delighted to discover on our June trip. It is a place to ogle period furniture, bronzes, paintings, porcelains, clocks and everything in between. The quality of the objects is marvellous, their condition pristine and the prices are in the affordable range for people who are comfortably well off.

Within the upper story there is a gallery full of maritime paintings that are exquisitely beautiful. The paintings range from the 18th Century on to the 20th Century in their execution.  Seascapes and landscapes of masterful artistry in original frames, all in superb condition. And most, sadly, beyond our pocketbook, but wonderful to look at. Many of the artists' names were familiar to my husband who felt it a privilege to be able to see them close up, not just in books and art magazines.

After the rush of the week-end, when there were so many people on the road, travelling hither and yon, celebrating their long-week end for Columbus Day in New Hampshire, we figured it would be as good a time as any on Monday to go along to one of the most picturesque spots in the area, just to pay our respects and to be newly amazed at the wonders of Nature.

We shouldn't have been disappointed to discover that the extended week-end brought people from hear and far to goggle and google at Sabbaday Falls. Despite the crowded parking lot and the extended parking on the roadway leading to the parking area, fortune was kind to us and serendipitously, we found a place in the parking lot newly vacated by a departing sight-seer.

It's a relatively easy, slightly uphill stroll of about three-quarters of a mile, perhaps a little more, to reach the falls. On the way there are glimpses of the mountain stream and the trees surrounding. The oaks still held on to some of their nicely bronzed foliage, and the birches, their yellow leafs. An occasional burst of crimson revealed the presence of maples. Great hemlocks of elderly vintage and large old beeches proliferate there, as well.

The day was heavily overcast, intensifying the hues and beauty of the colourful scenery; on our drive over to the falls the background mountain slopes were ablaze with gold, orange, bronze, green and red. Once on the broad trail leading to the falls, little Riley, trotting along beside us never fails to draw the attention of his innumerable admirers; they are legion and they are everywhere.

The basin at the foot of the falls swirls with an intense, pale green colour, the solid layered rocks above one of Nature's countless architectural wonders. The rushing impact of the falls thundering down into the basin below spumes the air with sound and moisture. We've taken so many photographs of this spectacular spectacle over the years, yet never tire of it; for how could we?

I was experiencing problems sleeping at night at the cottage, waking often, and unable to fall back to sleep. Not that I wasn't tired after a day of various types of activities, just seemed that I couldn't quite surrender to full sleep. I'd read abed as usual until I felt it was time to put out the bedside lamp, and would fall asleep readily enough. Trouble was, I couldn't stay asleep.

At one point overnight Sunday, I got up and pushed the bedroom curtains aside. What was revealed to me was a dark and starry night, of a brilliant quality I'd rarely seen before. The stars were so startlingly apparent in an endless sky of dark blue velvet. Had I been an astronomer I would have yelped for joy. No light pollution to speak of, to interfere with splendid views of the night-time sky. We were located, after all, outside any town, nestled within the soft bosom of a forest within a cottage with all the amenities we required, and no lights were on, anywhere, but for those shining ever so brightly from the heavens.

Of course, I've seen this type of thing before, on occasion, and had my breath taken away with the wonder of it all; observing a night-time sky unimpeded by the presence of civilized lighting, the kind of lighting that dispels darkness and with it, an adequate appreciation of the heavenly bodies that share the universe with our Earth.

When we would canoe-camp in Northern Ontario wilderness areas such as far interior stretches of Algonquin Park, for example, or when we were engaged in alpine camping climbing coastal mountains in British Columbia, all with our biologist son who can never be satiated with outdoor adventuring. On those occasions we would sit out quietly together, the three of us, on rocks close by lakes, listening to the waves lap on the shore and looking above at the proliferation of impossible numbers of stars comprising our Milky Way. Occasionally bats would fly by and we would hear their squeaks as they indulged in night-time hunting forays. There were rustles in the underbrush, and quiet murmurings indistinguishable for the most part, but representative of the nocturnal activities of the creatures of the forest who come alive at night.

The shimmering presence of a sky decorated with heavenly bodies, the occasional shooting star, the gradual progression of satellites making their brightly distinct way across the sky, all of it enthralled us.

At the cottage, I made my way back to bed, groping along in the dark, moving Riley over to enable my re-entry into the bed that seemed so crowded unlike our much larger one at home, and mused over the wonders of the universe. I composed a poem in my head that gave me great satisfaction, knowing that my literary muse had also been impressed by the spectacle above.

Came the morning, and try as I might, the poem could not be recalled; transitory, evanescent, a mystical, magical thing of the night.

On Saturday, the third day of our New Hampshire trip, we woke to a heavily overcast and cool day. Hardly unusual in the mountains, and certainly not at all for the month of October, one could safely assume. Most definitely jacket-and-gloves weather. We made certain when we packed for this trip that we would have appropriate gear for Riley as well, complete with raincoat and warmer little coats for when the occasion demanded.

We had sausage patties and French toast for breakfast, with coffee and tea after our oranges and bananas. We always have a more or less full-dress breakfast, since we never eat lunch and there's a fairly long interval between breakfast and dinner. Unlike at home, we have to take turns in the cottage shower, large enough for only one of us at a time. While my husband was in the shower, our hostess dropped by to explain that if the water suddenly stopped, it was because her husband was in the process of working on a problem with the plumbing.

We returned to Smarts Brook. Amazingly, we found the foliage far brighter with the heavy grey clouds overhead, than how it all looked the day before, in full sunlight. Somehow, a dull day seems to have an emphasizing effect on colour hues in a forest as long as it's not too dim, we've found.  We also discovered the parking lot to be even more fully crowded than yesterday. We determined to pursue our daily ramble no further than the pine flats. And took our time ambling along, taking photographs, and chatting with others on the trail.

There was a good enough reason not to spend hours trekking in the woods, since we had decided we'd drive to Antique Alley. Our main destination was the two Parker-French shops, and there too it was crowded with curiosity-seekers and antique hounds. The fact that this was a long week-end for Americans in the celebration of Columbus Day, offered an occasion for a good number of people to travel for their own long week-end, to view, as we had been doing, a geologically fascinating part of their own native heritage.

We came across some interesting paintings, netsuke (Japanese ivory carvings), furniture, porcelains, books, and surprisingly what must have been someone's collection of character dolls. Splendidly garbed, with beautifully painted, expressive porcelain faces, and paperweight-eyes. There was one painting, about 1890, of a ship being battered in a hurricane, in its original frame that appealed in particular. We dropped by another few group shops on our drive back; mostly full of pathetic collectible offerings.

On the plus side, despite that, everyone we came across was friendly and good natured. Typical New Hampshire residents.

On the second day of our autumn Waterville Valley, New Hampshire trip, it seemed, being within the clasp of the surrounding mountains, that dawn appears to enter daylight hours earlier than at home, just as the close of daylight hours seems earlier as well, with dusk introducing itself peremptorily, surprisingly early, transiting swiftly to deep velvety darkness.

We fell effortlessly into the cottage routine we've long become accustomed to, urging ourselves reluctantly out of our morning bed to shower, prepare breakfast, plan our activities for the day that beckoned ahead of us. As soon as breakfast is concluded, if there is any hint of sun, Riley communicates his anxiety to us to be allowed to go out to the lawn before the cottage, to bask in the sun.

We decided to make off for Smarts Brook, and on the way there, stop as usual for our daily newspaper fix at the nearby all-purpose stop where we gas up after our long drive from home, and where just about anything a traveller might want is available. As I wait in the car, I watch while SUVs, trucks and cars stop and their drivers dive into the store, soon exiting with pizza, subs, whatever they might think suitable for a late breakfast.

We're delighted to note that there is still ample colour left in copper beech leaves, yellow birch foliage. Dogwood leaves, patterned delicately in gold, pinks scarlet. Hemlock, spruce, pine gleamingly, assertively green within the suddenly bare deciduous portions of the forest surrounding the creek at Smarts Brook. The sky a blue sea upon which no clouds sail; bright rays penetrating deeper into the forest thanks to a depleted canopy.

Post-lipoma surgery, Riley virtually skips about, unimpeded, free from physical constraints, renewed, reborn, enthused, in his element, and ours.

The circuit consumes the late morning and early afternoon hours, enveloping us in the tangy aroma of tannin-crisp mounds of foliage on the forest floor.

A sudden wind unhinges from overhead branches remaining leaves, cascading them in gay abandon around us, festooning our hair, as though we have suddenly dissolved into the grater landscape, ourselves becoming merely another point of interest, a conceit abandoned as we forge on through the forest, irradiated by glimmers of sun reaching areas never before possible.

Awakening insects preparing for winter, and within us the vast reservoirs of pleasurable appreciation of life and its ineffable elements,

We had done our packing and were prepared to go. Packing was complete, obviously, when everything was stowed neatly away in the car. My husband is a genius at packing, capable of utilizing every nook and cranny to figure out what best goes where, and he'd done a great job as usual. We left our house just after nine, after doing a turn in the front garden, marvelling how beautiful it still looked under the influence of the early morning sun glimmering on the colourful foliage and flowers.

The drive was uneventful just as it should be, allowing us to admire the autumn colours all along the way. A pleasant drive, even when the passage through Montreal was taken into account, slowly, slowly over the Champlain Bridge with the press of traffic, particularly trucks transporting goods and recreational vehicles transporting Thanksgiving week-end holidayers making their impact over the flow.

We learned what slow truly is, however, when we reached U.S. Customs at the Phoebe Line crossing; that was agonizingly interminable, our wait turned out to be one hour and a half before our cursory interrogation and passport inspection was concluded finally. At least this time, as in June, we happened by chance to be met at the border by a courteous customs and immigration individual, not the more familiar smirking snarl of those whose attitudes are capable of withering the enthusiasm to travel to the U.S.

We stopped shortly after the crossing at the Vermont State rest station, familiar to us and fondly regarded for its pleasant view, comfort station, and opportunity to rest before resuming our trip. There, as we enjoyed our late brunch on a picnic table, we watched as someone exited a van, unfolded a wire enclosure, establishing it firmly on the lawn, then made three trips from van to the pen to deposit six two-month-old fat, fluffy balls of mischievous curiosity. They were from Quebec City, en route to northern New York State. Individual personalities of the little creatures were soon revealed as we watched their activities; the shy, the bumptious, the ultra-curious, the assertive, the withdrawn runt, and the excessively emotional. We hoped the little Aussies would all find good, loving homes.

The rest of the trip is fairly short by comparison to the first portion. A pleasure to drive those mountain highways with the granite summits rising on the horizon, themselves partially covered in soft hues of colour as we drove along under lowering cloud formations. Passing through the Franconia Notch, we noted all the old familiar landmarks, the pond, our favourite Eagle's Cliff and towering above it Mount Lafayette, where we had several times clambered with huge determination to reach the summit with our children, decades ago. And the lesser heights which we also summitted as an energetically happy family.

We arrived finally at the cottage at four in the afternoon, unpacked, and set out to do the food shopping for the week to come. Enjoyed our dinner and went to bed a little earlier than is our wont, in a stupour of exhaustion. Grateful that little Riley is such a good traveller, his only concerns seeming to want to be with us, and to be assured plentiful food.

Much as we enjoyed ourselves away from home for a week - and it is indisputable that we did enjoy ourselves - we're glad to be home again. It's always so striking when we've been away even for so short a time how, when we're back home exposed once again to everything familiar that we're taken by surprise, seeing the familiar in a different way. Everything just looks different, and it takes a few minutes to completely recall familiarity. We saw it even in little Riley, who adjusts very well to new environments as long as he's with us, who, on our return home, sought to familiarize himself once again within his slightly 'unfamiliar' surroundings. Confirming, one might suppose, just how deeply engrained within us habit tends to be in our psychological comfort.

Sleeping in our very own bed was an absolute and quite wonderful re-adjustment. It's difficult to return to sleeping in what was once called a 'double' bed, when you've been long accustomed to the comfort, width and breadth of a Queen-sized bed by comparison. Our own linen was appreciated. Even though at the cottage we're provided with a daily change of towels, our own are preferred. As is our double shower, when we can shower together. The poky-sized rooms of a cottage cannot compare to the pleasure taken in more spacious chambers, like our own.

And although it will always be a superb experience to look out at the mountains surrounding the cottage, and the forests and the changing aspect of the sky in such a tremendously different geology, at home we have our gardens to offer us pleasure, and the nearby wooded ravine to provide us with leisure outdoor activity. Apart from comparing, needless to say, hiking in the mountains represents an activity dear to our hearts. It is odd, however, how infrequently we sight any wildlife of any type or size, in the White Mountain range. Once, years ago, a juvenile black bear, once, at a distance, a deer, another time even more distant, a moose; the most we can ever hope for appears to be red squirrels and chipmunks and even they are in short supply. The area is not a flyway, and bird sightings common enough at home, remain uncommon there but for the spring.

We had a late morning walk in the ravine off our street earlier today, in a light drizzle. It is surprisingly cooler here than it was in the Waterville Valley. Most of the ravine's canopy has fallen; some of the maples and the beech are still hoisting their colourful flags of yellow, red and copper, but the greater aggregate litters the forest floor. We have red, black and grey squirrels in abundance and they greeted our peanut handouts with huge enthusiasm as we ambled along. There was a noisy vee formation of Canada geese overhead, wending their long way south in anticipation of winter. And up in an old pine where we occasionally spot them -- or rather generations of them -- there were two juvenile raccoons, watching as we gained one of the hills on our woodland ramble.

Photographing a mountain stream heading for the Pemigawasset River, Basins Cascade, Franklin Notch

I had given it some thought; another week away in our favourite vacationing place, the Waterville Valley in New Hampshire. We'd been there in June and enjoyed ourselves as we always do, and always have since the first time we ventured there perhaps forty years ago. There was a time when we became accustomed to one week in spring, another in fall, but we haven't practised those autumn visits the last number of years.

September came and departed and we gave little thought to embarking on another trip. For one thing, we were far too busy, welcoming family members for their brief visits, arranging for our little toy Poodle's surgery, and any number of other concerns, and before we knew it, September was over. And that's when my husband asked how I'd feel about going off once again, this time in October. Late for us, we'd never gone there at this time of year, but we both agreed it might prove a good experience.

Besides which, my husband is restless, he always has been, and if gets the bug to go somewhere, it's a good idea to accommodate him. Riley, since his operation, has become far more mobile, able to exert himself better, a great improvement since the removal of the lipomas, and so we decided to make reservations.

We packed all the items of warm clothing we were certain we would need since it is invariably cooler and quite certainly wetter up in the mountains where the climate tends to be that way in our experience. And while we did need warmer clothing, we were able to dispense with layering ourselves for warmth on several days while there. One day it was too warm even for sweaters let alone a light jacket. Rain didn't interrupt our activities, for there were only two rain events and both occurred overnight.

The fall foliage was still magnificent; a red maple beside the cottage was in full blaze, the highways we took daily in our forays to various hiking trails and our searches for 19th Century paintings at antique shops and other similar goodies, took our breath away with the scope and brilliance of the oaks, maples, birch and beech leaves. When the wind blew, a confetti of colourful leaves drifted through the atmosphere.

After that week away we're both agreed, mid-October might just represent the best of all possible times to go off hiking in the woods beside mountain streams, seeing the grandeur of the mountains at close range (ha!) and listening to the thunder of the water falling down the mountain slopes, bubbling and frothing over and around rockfalls and our enthralled witness to erratics growing miniature forests on their tops.

From time to time he wistfully claims he has every intention of returning to painting. It has been over a decade since he picked up his brushes. There are started canvasses downstairs in his studio that he has simply set aside. He's been busy with numerous other projects. It was exciting in a sense when he was involved in painting; the slow revelation of the scene that he was busy with coming into focus, and the final completion of the painting. He hardly considers himself what might be termed a skilled artist, but he finds pleasure and satisfaction in it.

For my part, I'm amazed that he has that talent. It's one that our children appear to have inherited. It's not just painting, but all manner of crafts and even scholarly things; his immense interest in history and in world literature, in art and in the accomplished creation of objects of great beauty. Through woodworking, and the production of stained glass windows, for example. No job seems too difficult or too large for him to tackle when he is inspired to begin it. Not excavating large areas around the house to prepare them for the laying of brickwork in an ornamental courtyard, nor installing a wood-lined library on our second floor. Neither plumbing nor electrical work fazes him; he tackles it all.

At this point in our lives, however, I would most particularly like him to return to painting. He took up watercolour sketches around fifty years ago. He would take our then-youngest child in a stroller accompanied by a friend also interested in art, with his own young child also in a stroller and they would go to the Art Gallery of Ontario together.

Over succeeding years when we used to take our children on outdoor recreational adventures; hiking, canoeing, mountain climbing he would do sketches and later translate some of them into paintings. And when he travelled for his work he would often return home with sketches of what he had seen and thought likely for a painting, in good time. In a way some of those paintings represent a chronicle of our lives unfolding. Apart from the pleasure they provide us with in enjoying them.

We took Environment Canada's weather warning seriously this morning. Yesterday's all-day heavy rain had kept us indoors. It just doesn't feel right to us, to miss a day of rambling about in the woods. We were determined that today's rain wouldn't end up keeping us from our daily ravine walk. We just cleared the table of breakfast dishes and off we went. Unprepared for what we found when we exited the house.

Since threat of rain was imminent, and plenty of rain predicted, we wore raincoats, all of us. Two adults and one very small dog. We would forge ahead through the ravine, rain or no rain. But when we walked out the door we were bathed in a gentle steam of warmly moist air; it felt just like a steam bath.

Once we dipped into the ravine and were surrounded by the trees, still dripping from yesterday's rainfall and whatever fell overnight, we saw leaves and pine needles steadily falling from the canopy above, but not yet any rain. The sky looked as though someone had hung out an amorphous mess of dripping, still-soiled clothing. But within the forest of the ravine despite the heavy overcast and gloom the colours of fall gleamed brightly.

Still-ripening apples dangled from branches, inviting us to pick a few to test their sweet, moist crispness. The trails were lush with fallen needles and colourful piles of foliage looking like forest confetti. And at this time of year when the combination of fall and wet conditions are ideal, mushrooms begin to make their presence, attracting us with their fanciful shapes and sometimes improbable colouration.

Overcast conditions and wet foliage somehow transform a landscape; it becomes exciting, entrancing, vibrant with colour nuances and fragrance. And this morning had all of it. We were, after all, able to take our time enjoying the surroundings that so complement the quality of our lives, without rain interrupting our amble. It was when we were about fifteen minutes from completing our circuit that the first tiny drops appeared.

By then the atmosphere had completely changed; the steamy heat had vanished and in its place was an emphatic breeze, and the air now felt cool. The sky, however, had become darker and it was clear that rain was imminent. Still, we took our time ambling along, and the light shower lifted, though not the darkness. When we reached the street, leaving the ravine, the rain began again, tentatively.

And by the time we entered our house a downpour of gigantic proportions pounded the windows, streaming ferociously over the glass panels, and looking up into the sky it resembled nothing so much as a giant aquarium.

Just like Goldilocks I like the weather not too cold, not too hot, just comfortably warm. Although not too warm. A little breeze is helpful. And when you're working in the garden even clouds are useful to shelter the hard-working gardener from the hot stare of the sun.

Yesterday's weather conditions provided all of that, and it was quite helpful to my resolve to finally get some action going on cleaning up the gardens. A start on it, in any event. For there is a lot of clean-up to be done when the growing season is at its stalemate between nudging new growth into life and staggering back into the soil, to await another winter's passage before spring renewal.

So, I collected the tools I needed, secateurs and shears and other types of snips, long-handled and short, to begin the adventure in close-cropping old greenery to make the garden nice and tidy awaiting late fall, when it's far too cold, blustery, wet and miserable to do all of that. It's far easier now than it was years ago when I also had to winter-blanket some sensitive plants which have since hardened off to our Canadian winters.

For many years, while the first of our magnolias was struggling to maturity I used to protect it by entirely blanketing it. Along with holly and rhododendron, azaleas and even yews. None of these specimens any longer get covered. Some of our roses do, but not the Explorer series or other tough customers like rugosa roses. I even stopped covering my tree peonies and though it's more of a struggle for them, they too manage to survive the winter - although they're slower in recovering come spring.

So I began yesterday by snipping off the long, overgrown spears of lilies and irises, cut back the peonies and the ligalarium, the astilbes, tickseed, Chinese lanterns, bleeding hearts, Jacob's ladder, ferns, bee balm, geraniums, phlox, echinacea and other spent perennials. The hostas can wait and so can the clematis, the black-eyed Susans, Ladies mantle, and other things. Because by then I had run out of energy.

And five paper compostable bags, four feet in height were full to the brim. Moreover, I was feeling not only exhausted but extremely warm and needed a break. Looking around, it hardly seems as though I've begun the process. There is just so much more needing to be done before all looks neat and tidy and prepared for winter.

And then, I must remember to plant the new allium bulbs, and the grape hyacinths for their lovely spring showing.