Two days ago we enjoyed the last of a much-appreciated week of dry, sunny and moderately-warm weather. The forest in the Bilberry Creek Ravine was still ablaze with colour. There wasn't much wind to speak of, and light jackets accommodated our comfort level.

We came across a somewhat-unsurprising number of people, toddling through the upper ravine trails that don't require much exertion, descending and mounting hills. People who make a point of coming out at least once a year, some with extended family members, small children and dogs in tow, to enjoy the autumn colours, a splendour no one should miss.

And then, that night came unrelenting rain, splashing down throughout the night hours, driven by wild wind gusts lashing against the house. That rain continued all the following day, to the extent that no opportunity arose to get out for a walk. Ferocious wind and gushing rain just kept the atmosphere in a bind of driving rain.

After having the house washed in bright sunlight for days on end, it was strange to suddenly find ourselves in the twilight atmosphere that prevailed with an utterly dark day, leaping into dusk and finally night. And that following night the rain continued its inundation of the landscape.

But by late afternoon yesterday there was a break in the weather, and we were able to get out for our usual circuit, taking care to wear rain gear. We were the lucky ones, since our normal life resumed without fuss, while there were areas of the city without power, where streets were flooded and people evacuated where waters rose too steeply too quickly.

This weather system, the tail end or the edge of a tropical storm, hit New England particularly badly. On the news this morning was the notification that a million people were without power and flooding was widespread. Weren't we fortunate, being in New England territory only the week before and enjoying mild temperatures, light breezes and fully clear skies, the sun beaming through the forest trails we took?

Yesterday, we saw the creek down in the ravine rushing madly with a surfeit of rainwater run-off, to make its way eventually to the Ottawa River. The newly engineered remediation of the creek and the ravine hillsides was being put to the test. This year has set a record for rainfall throughout the spring, summer, and now fall.

The wind, though still emphatic, has been tamed in comparison to yesterday, when it brought down quite a bit of detritus from the forest canopy, including a large section of a poplar that had been hung up on another poplar, leaning directly over the trail for months. Now it's still leaning over the trail, but detached from its former perch, its peak hung up on another poplar's top limbs.

And, given the day's presentation of overcast skies interspersed with clear episodes, and the ongoing wind, along with colder temperatures, Jackie and Jillie are now geared out in heavier all-weather coats to shield them from the cold and the rain. They don't seem to mind, they're so happy to be out in the woods they indulge in bouts of playful bursts of energy, challenging one another to run-abouts; their coats no impediments whatever.

A back country highway intersects between the considerable property owned by our hosts where we have for years rented a cottage in the Waterville Valley and the property opposite, a wide field with the mountains for background that was once used as a horse pasturage. When the riding school and horse-boarding operation was still there, we used to throw apples from a small, productive apple tree standing close by the cottage, to the horses.

Now, the field is unused, awaiting someone's opportunity to use it in a similar fashion or to develop it for other purposes. There had been rumours several years ago that property developers were interested in investing in parcelling the land for condominiums; they've become a popular institution in the area, given the proximity to the mountains and skiing opportunities in the winter, hiking in other seasons, but there was resistance from some local businesses and the idea was shelved.

When we got up the third morning of our stay at the cottage and meandered out to walk about on the greensward with our little dogs, an overnight temperature inversion had created morning fog in the field, and mist rising from the valleys and mountain slopes beyond. An utterly bewitching landscape, with the sun burning through an otherwise clear sky.

Later we decided we'd go off to one of our favourite viewing spots, Sabbaday Falls. The brilliant fall scenery along the Kancamagus Highway was spectacular. As evanescently beautiful the morning scene on the field had been, the ephemeral glory of the autumn colours alongside the highway was equally spell-binding.

The mountains loom on either side of the highway, and there was an ocean of clear periwinkle blue above, the sun sailing along brilliantly, the forest below us and up the slopes of the mountainsides virtually vibrating with bright shades of orange, gold, copper and red. Because of the unusually warm and clear fall weather that week in the White Mountain National forest there were greater numbers of sight-seers than is usual at this time of year, along with more intrepid adventurers stopping at trailheads and venturing off for a day's hiking.

And then, when we arrived at the parking lot for the Sabbaday Falls spectacular, we were utterly dismayed. The entrances were barricaded, and 'closed' signs prevailed. It was evident that work was being carried out in the area, and we later learned that the elevated wooden stairs and walkways leading to and from the falls were being rebuilt, so no one was permitted entry for obvious safety reasons.

No matter, we sighed and continued on the highway, heading to the Rocky Gorge state park, a half-hour's driving distance.

When we were at Sabbaday Falls in June we had feasted on the sight of the falls; that memory would have to do us until the next time we'd approach the site.

We're very fond of the street we live on, and fond of some of the caring, friendly people who inhabit it. At one time they were all the original home purchasers, many of whom have moved on elsewhere, and at that time we pretty well knew everyone. Since then, younger families have moved in, although the street, not a very long one, can boast that at least one-third, actually almost a half, of the home-dwellers are retired. It's a quiet street, with very little traffic, perfect for both the young and the elderly.

When we first moved into the house we've called home 26 years ago, the first neighbour to welcome us lived across the street, a personable young black couple. We became quite good friends, until a job opportunity beckoned them to move with their two young sons to the United States. In the first few years after their move they'd occasionally return to Canada and drop by to say hello.

Just as the dwellings on the street are mixed; condos as well as single-family dwellings, so are the residents. There are people who moved to Canada from Hong Kong, from Russia, from Egypt and Syria, Bangladesh and India among the native-born French and Anglophone Canadians. We're the only Jewish family on the street though one of our neighbours down the street is Jewish, his wife French-Canadian, just as two of the other mixed families are Egyptian men married to Canadian-born women not of Egyptian descent.

Their professions vary widely, from members of the military (mostly retired), to doctors (an oncologist from France married to a French Canadian), to a bus driver, a food wholesaler, an accountant, a social scientist, federal public employees, and all manner of tradespeople. Among the tradespeople is a painter; they're a family who are the second owners of a house across the street and down about a half-dozen houses from ours. Across from them live a young Syrian family, a couple with two young children, who moved into their home about four years ago.

For the most part, people get along well. One of our direct neighbours is a man, involved in IT, who is pathologically hostile to the presence of other people, a severe introvert; strangely enough his wife is a bright extrovert; what fun that must be to be living together as they have as long as we've known them. But people can accommodate themselves to almost anything.

Except, perhaps, direct malevolence aimed at them, threats that are alarming in their personal nature, emanating from a source that is explosively emotionally volatile. The young Syrian couple are the sweetest people imaginable, their two children the very picture of adorable good health and upbringing. Several years ago when they first moved in to their house they contracted with the painter who lives directly opposite them, to paint the interior of their house while they were away on a trip.

When they returned from their trip they found their house an utter shambles, and the painting which hadn't been completed despite ample time and promises never fulfilled, was a mess, neither the colours agreed upon nor the requests for special attention honoured by the painter or his crew. The result of which left a dissatisfied customer, shocked beyond words when he was presented with an invoice that was sky-high and certainly not reflective of their casual agreement of trust.

He found himself with little option but to pay, albeit under protest, and consider the experience a caution for the future. Never did he anticipate that the painter would mount a campaign to verbally assault him at every opportunity, and utter threats against him, his wife and their children. The latest incident recounted by the young man was that when he was walking with his five-year-old son along the street not far from their house, the painter drove his truck directly toward them; quick action averted a direct hit, but then the truck was turned around and the same thing was repeated.

Our friend called the police as he'd done on previous occasions. The painter had previously informed the police that he recognized he might have a problem with anger management and he'd think of doing something about it. On this occasion what he told the police was that he hated the young man and that was that. That elicited a stern warning, needless to say. The police then advised our friend to immediately take out a restraining order against the painter. This is a man who, when he sees the  young man out on the street, at the front of his house, will emerge from his own house to shout insults, profanities and threats at him. His wife has attempted to talk with the painter's wife, but to no avail; her attitude is little different from her husband's.

This man has more than an anger management problem; his vicious hostility is fearsome. Our best friends and neighbours on the street, Mohinder and Rajindar have their own story to tell, of the time Rajinder was walking up the street having embarked from the bus taking her home from work, only to have this dreadful man stand at the end of his driveway, directing loud abuse at her every step of the way.

It's inevitable. The garden still looks fairly presentable. We haven't yet had an overnight killing frost, but it's on the way. Each morning I look out onto the front gardens and my eyes are soothed by the still-fresh colours of begonias planted in all of the garden pots. The hydrangeas still have that look about them of puffed-up self-satisfaction, even if the earlier-blooming blue and pink ones have faded.

It's not that I've entirely ignored the need to begin tidying up the garden for fall. I haven't been completely remiss. I've cut back, for example, the foliage of the peonies, the lilies, the irises and pulled some of the annuals that were languishing pitiably. Those of the many hostas that grace our garden which began to appear past redemption were also cut back. So a little bit has been done.

But now, it's the serious work of emptying the garden pots of their waning blooms, cleaning up the begonias to save their bulbs to overwinter until next spring, and the same with the canna and calla lilies. I won't keep dahlias, however. I had intended to when I planted  them in the spring, but they've been such poor performers I just won't bother; their replacements next spring are plentiful.

All of the hostas will be cut back, along with the many Annabelle hydrangeas. It's time-consuming, but also invigorating once I'm out there, committed to doing the work. Usually it's all done by October 31, but we've had such wonderfully mild, sunny weather, there didn't seem to be any great hurry this year. Because simply, everything has retained a look of complacent beauty. And I hesitate to disturb it.

Yesterday was my  second bout in the backyard, and I took the opportunity to trim a few globe cedars, as well as upright ones beside them; because they had grown so robustly over the years they were beginning to completely obscure the garden statue of Discobolus that stands between them.

Today is another relatively mild day at 17-C degrees for the high, with little wind and full sun, destined to become cloudy as the day wears on, with showers in the offing. If I have the opportunity after our ravine walk, I'll devote some hours to seriously cleaning up the gardens in the front. Painful though it is to nip the flowers that still flaunt their colour, texture and loveliness.

Without doubt our long hike on the circuit of the day before tired Jackie and Jillie to the degree that they slept that night, our second in the cottage, without once waking until we ourselves were prepared to rise at eight in the morning. Needless to say we slept like virtual logs the night through, and we could thank our exertions doing the Smart's Brook trail for that, even though we went to bed just after ten in the evening.

 While I prepared breakfast, my husband looked through the White Mountain guide again so we could decide where to head for next, for our day's forest hike. This one to be relatively short in comparison to yesterday's and fairly physically undemanding. With all that in mind we finally set off for Drake's Brook, a trail we hadn't been to in  many years. Despite which once we were on the trail my husband recalled it in fairly good detail. Surprising, since it's usually my recall we depend upon.

The stunning scenery of the autumn wood once again took our breath away. As for Jackie and Jillie they were just delighted to be out again in the woods. We had decided that for the duration of our stay we would keep them on leash once out on forest trails. We had no intention of risking an impetuous run by one or the other to follow a squirrel or just to romp about out of our sight for a moment, since that would be all it would take for us to lose contact. The thought of losing one of them terrifies us; the very thought of these small creatures, defenceless and hugely dependent, not knowing where they are, and how to fend for themselves is fear inspiring.

They didn't seem to mind being on leash, though it was awkward at times since Jackie tends to run and leap about everywhere, ensuring the leashes would regularly become tangled, since we were using extended leashes. And when the terrain is demanding, it's more difficult when they have to be restrained like that, complicating their footing and ours as well.

The trees in full fall colour, the trail was thick in red and gold. Some trees, mostly birch, already close to bald, but maples and beech and oak still in the colour-turning stages, some of them absolutely aflame. We hiked along Drake's Brook to Fletcher's Cascade trail. Drake's Brook wide, and Fletcher's narrow, rockstrewn and root-riven, so difficult to negotiate with any semblance of speed, leaving us to proceed at a cautious pace. However the trail, often very wet, was dry.

With a high of 72-F, a clear blue sky and light wind, it was a perfect hiking day. We were obviously tired from our previous day's hike at Smart's Brook. so that this outing was only of several hours' duration suited us very well.

Our first night at the cottage, after our six-hour drive to arrive there and driving another half-hour back and forth to stock up with food for the week at the excellent Hannaford supermarket in Plymouth, was less than restful. As she had done earlier during our June stay, Jillie was unhappy and spent a good part of the night whimpering, homesick. Thank heavens though it ruined the first night's sleep for us that performance was not repeated during the balance of our stay. But it did mean that we didn't get adequate rest.

We awoke to a sparkling crispy-cool day under a clear blue sky. We decided after breakfast to make off directly for our favourite hike, the Smartsbrook trail, a half-hour drive past Campton. We picked up a copy of the Boston Globe at the usual stop en route, and drove past stunning landscapes of deciduous trees in warm tones of gold, orange and browns, captivating to the eye of the beholder.

At Smartsbrook we weren't the only hikers, there were already several vehicles in the parking lot. Jackie and Jillie were beside themselves with excitement, and off we went. The trail, long familiar to us, was an absolute glory of colour; flaming red foliage in what was left of leaves on dogwood and sumac, and the deep yellows of birch, orange-brown of beech, with oak and maples in more muted reds; absolutely overwhelming. We climbed the trail alongside the brook, the water lower than it is in spring and nowhere near as melodious. There were bluejays calling from the forest canopy, and the sound of a nuthatch briefly nearby.

The acrid odour of desiccating foliage mixed with the fragrance of pine and hemlock. Hemlock and birch seem to predominate with an understory of dogwood. The area is continually moist from the spray sent up by the rushing mountain brook, so there is plenty of moss growing in abundance, soft green and plush, like a miniature forest itself. The constantly moist atmosphere also acts as a 'nursery' to tree seedlings which are scattered everywhere. Part of the brook is sided with a colourful granite wall of striated, red-toned granite that in and of itself is pretty impressive.

As we ascended, we reached the pine flats, an extended flattened area which, when we first encountered it decades earlier, shocked us, resulting from its having been newly harvested and looking barren and forlorn. Now, the prevailing pines, hemlocks, oaks and maples populate the flats with the appearance of a maturing forest. The trail on the flats descends into a more mature forest, long since having left the brook. The entire circuit used to take us no more than two or 2-1/2 hours.

By the time we entered that portion of the circuit we were flagging. At age 80 it's perhaps a little physically daunting to undertake such a lengthy hike, but the weather was perfect and the hike itself not difficult with just moderately easy ascents. Still, our energy was lacking and we couldn't decide whether to continue or to turn back and cut short our planned circuit. In the end we forged on, but at a decidedly slower pace, which worked to conserve whatever energy we did have.

Halfway through the circuit we reach a bridge forging the brook, and the trail turns around in the opposite direction once again following the brook. The trail leads onto a well-forested but broad cart track, and we continued our hike at that gradual pace until finally reaching the point where the trail turns a sharp right and descends, becoming much narrower, bringing the forest to closer proximity, closing out the blue sky and creating an almost Rip-van-Winkely atmosphere.

We could see that even Jackie and Jillie were wilting, becoming tired from the effort of the hike, unless we were just imagining, attributing to them what we were feeling ourselves. In any event, by the time we reached the parking lot, grateful to have completed the circuit, a full four-and-a-half hours had passed. It had taken us twice as long for that hike as it 'normally' in years back would have done. And likely considerably longer than we had managed when we'd done the circuit in June.

Of a certainty, when we were young we travelled light. My husband has always been an explorer of sorts, always wanting to travel and look about the world. Which is to say the world close at hand and in its farther reaches. He is restless, and he likes to be on the move. From the time we were young we were, when it was feasible, on the move.

We were on the move last Tuesday. No longer young, we no longer travel light. Not that we were going too far; about a six-hour drive from our home takes us to New Hampshire in the United States, from our Ottawa home. And although the cottage we rent for a week at a time, spring and fall, is fully equipped with a working kitchen we pack along things that a basic kitchen doesn't have; graters, casserole baking dishes, cutting boards, special knives, things like that. A pizza pan too, of course.

And clothing, plenty of that. We'd checked the ten-day weather forecast repeatedly for the Waterville Valley. At first it was truly dismal, cool and rainy, day after day. The day before we left it changed completely, so that the day we were to leave was destined to be rainy, but the five following days sunny with unseasonably mild temperatures and rain again only on the day we would leave our vacation to return home.

We've got our two little dogs to think about; grooming stuff, sweaters in case it is cold, towels to wipe them off if they get wet, and their beds. Oh yes, their food and their treats. And my husband always packs extra extension cords, packing tape and cardboard in case he makes an acquisition at the various antique shops we pop into, to wrap anything he buys carefully for transit back home.

Once the business of packing the box of the truck was complete -- including a large freezer chest to haul back unused food we'd bought while there, my husband prepared a thermos of coffee for himself and a thermos of tea for me, while I put together a brunch of clementines, bananas, and peanut butter sandwiches. We fed the puppies, had them out in the back a few times, and then, when all was done, off we drove. Into a cool, overcast morning; not very early, but good enough.

We had lots to talk about during the drive to access the new highway skirting Montreal. We had occasional breaks in the overcast sky when the sun shone on farmers' fields and small towns we skirted to the Quebec border and beyond. At the border where we crossed into the United States it was gratifying for a change to come across a welcoming, friendly customs officer, unlike the bad-tempered, hostile agents we most often encounter. When I mentioned how appreciative we were of his professional attitude, the man smiled broadly and in a southern-tinctured voice remarked that he was only reflecting the attitude of the people he responded to. Which never worked with the taciturn ones.

A few kilometres on from the border stop was the Vermont rest stop operated as a courtesy to the travelling public, which offered tourism pamphlets, free coffee, and pleasant people manning the building. Oh, also clean and plentiful restrooms. We always seek out one of the picnic tables/benches on the well-cared for lawns and plunk ourselves down to enjoy a late brunch before travelling on. Jackie and Jillie appreciate the opportunity to stretch their little legs in a bit of a roundabout there, and helpfully participate in our brunch.

From there it always seems a short drive to the border with New Hampshire and our arrival at the Franconia Notch. By this time, 2:30 p.m., the sky was semi-clear, the air comfortably mild and somewhat windy. Conditions for viewing the mountains on either side as we passed were excellent; sometimes they're shrouded in fog while mist rises from the slopes. Many years ago we climbed summits like Indian Head, Little Haystack, Lincoln and Mount Lafayette; now we're content to just view them.

A half-hour later we pulled in to the site in the Waterville Valley where we would be staying for the next seven days, with the intention of doing some trail hiking and moseying about the White Mountain national forest and the Presidential Range. We didn't need to procure a permit this time because when we were there in June we'd gotten a permit good for a year. We greeted our genial hosts, unpacked the truck, settled things in the cottage and went off to do the grocery shopping a half hour's distance, for the week.

This month a year ago beavers were busy taking down quite a haul of poplar trees in the forest. We grew accustomed to being faced every day with the scene of new trees having been taken down some time during the day before, presumably when no one was around to witness those busy harvesters. By the time November turned into December they had managed to secure for themselves all the branches and limbs they thought they'd need to make their dam and underwater lodge for the coming winter.

They had left several trees in what seemed like a fairly parlous state; their sharp teeth had gnawed right around the bark of each, effecting the spring sap ascent, and made significant cuts on either side of both trees. Yet they hadn't bothered completing its take-down. So both trees have stood for a year, appearing like a convincing hazard in waiting.

Yesterday's incessant hard rain and bellowing wind brought down one of those trees over a portion of the trail. Where the beavers are at this juncture is kind of hazy. When the hillside close to our street leading into the ravine slumped in the spring the beavers made their hasty way over to what resulted when the clay clogged up the creek and created a sizeable pond. They swiftly established a presence there. One can only imagine their disgust when remedial construction was initiated and bulldozers came in to free up the creek's runway.

With each day that passes now, every time we enter the forest we can see the difference that has occurred overnight. Last night we had frost and we'll have frost again tonight. Our gardens haven't been affected yet because they're so drenched from all the rain. When gardens are wet to that extent cold of that nature fails to create the havoc that will arise when deeper frost occurs.

Meanwhile, the garden remains colourful and the forest becomes increasingly colourful.

My husband and I have lived our lives in the harrowing shadow of the Holocaust, it is never far from our minds. So we don't necessarily seek out films depicting any reference to those horrors. We don't need reminders, we have never 'forgotten'. Last night, however, we decided to watch a film documenting the struggle of an Austrian-born Jewish woman to recover her family's wealth in paintings, specifically paintings owned by her family, by Gustav Klimt whose famous painting of her aunt was among them, one treasured as a family heirloom, which the State of Austria treasured as a state heirloom of great renown, rejecting its Jewish provenance, presenting it as an anonymous subject. They renamed it from Portrait of Adele to Woman in Gold. And Helen Mirren, through her acting skills portrayed Austrian-American Maria Altmann movingly.

Gustave Klimpt's portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer

I had read so much as a child and young woman revealing the extent of Nazi-led atrocities against the Jews of Europe leading to the ultimate plan to achieve the mass extermination of an ethnic group of peoples whom German fascism under Adolf Hitler considered not merely unter-mensch, but a pestilence. I hardly needed reminders. Still, it was an additional jolt.

The proud, nationalist country that gave the United Nations its grave and honourable demeanour under Secretary-General Kurt Waldheim's nine-year authority, and which rallied around him in grand defiance when it was revealed that he had been a medalled and commended part of the military intelligence of Nazi Germany whose signature appeared on documents linked to massacres and deportations did all in its power to retain in its possession iconic art treasures looted from Jews.

That viewing brought back memories of my own, aside from my growing horror as a child reading about the persecution of Jews going back into ancient history, to discover that modern history outmanoeuvred the primitive pogroms to morph into a state-sponsored, detailed and mechanized efficient killing-machine dedicated to genocide.

Back in 1957 when I was 20 and working at a large accounting firm Deloitte, Plender, Haskins & Sells in downtown Toronto there was a young German woman about my own age also working there. For some reason I had invited her and her husband over for dinner one evening. There we were, all four pleasantly seated at the dinner table in the first house my husband and I owned, chatting about various things when the conversation turned to people we didn't like in our workplace. The lanky young husband smiled and with his accented German said something to the effect that it was too bad Germany hadn't targeted such people instead of the Jews. A stifling cloak of silence fell over us. I was aghast and repelled that I had invited someone of that ilk into our home.

Many years later when our firstborn was 17, a young woman approached me in a downtown shopping mall, asking if I knew where she could buy yogourt, in an accented German, a vulnerable-looking woman-child. I responded and somehow gained the knowledge that she was backpacking her way across Canada, and had been sleeping in an abandoned building on an island with a bridge approach nearby. We went with her to her sleeping place, gathered her belongings and took her home with us where she showed me the knife she carried with her, showered, washed her clothing, and slept over a few days. She asked my husband to drive her to the highway leading to Montreal, her next destination. We gave her a few dollars to tide her a bit, hugged her and waved her off.

Later still, canoe-camping for a week at Killarney provincial park with our youngest son we were hiking up a steep hill on a day-trip when my husband and I begged off going any further, leaving it to our son to continue to mount to the summit while we sat awaiting his return. It was a lengthy wait and eventually a young couple hove into view undertaking the same ascent. They were pleasant, eager to talk, and German. German youth are adventurous.

When we lived in Tokyo and became members of Friends of the Earth hiking club there were a number of young Germans who were also members of that club, and we fraternized with them during our week-end adventures when the group would take buses, trains, subways in a long succession of trips to gain the outer edges of the city and on into small towns adjacent mountain hikes. One young man in particular often chose our company; he hoped my husband could help him obtain a visa to Canada.

One end-of-summer adventure that took us to northern British Columbia with our youngest son, to the Kariboo Mountain range where at the 3,000-foot level the Bowron Lakes canoe-camping circuit beckoned, saw us introduced yet again to a young, adventurous couple whom we twice shared a camping spot with. This pair was Austrian. And they revealed to us their fear resulting from the presence on the circuit of a pair of Germans. It was the Germans, they declared, who were responsible for the Second World War and its excessive atrocities; Austrians were completely innocent.

As though out of the blue -- although today there was no blue in today's sky, rather it is uncompromisingly overcast, a steely-grey sky threatening at any moment to open up to yet another rain event -- a little Cairn terrier came dashing over the bridge, past a surprised Jackie and Jillie, up the sloping hill, then back down again with both our twins in hot pursuit.

They are a little lighter this morning; earlier in the day I disposed of a hefty bagful of soft black fluffy hair and it wasn't mine. I'd have to go back a whole whack of years for my hair at this point in life presenting as black. In theirs, at age three, it's expected, even with Jillie's white blaze and Jackie's little white chin hairs. It didn't take all that long to trim their hair, and it won't take all that long for it to grow back again as undisciplined and bush-like as it was before the trim.

Age three is just how old the little terrier was, though he was a robust little fellow. Later, as we stood about talking with a young couple with their two young children whose family the terrier was an integral part of, I was standing on that same bridge when the terrier in a burst of exhilarated energy romped across it, and the bridge shook under my feet.

So robust, yes, muscular for a little fellow and weighing easily twice what Jackie and Jillie do, he was just on the end of over-sized for his breed, an outgoing and happy little fellow, whom our two were more than happy to oblige. The little girl, just started school, and her older brother were fascinated with the interplay between the three dogs, matched in enthusiasm if not quite in size.

Their mother had a hearty, infectious laugh that rang out easily and often, a young woman happy with her life and her family, since they were quite obviously her life. Her husband, a bespectacled young man who evinced a keen interest in everything my husband said was either extremely polite or genuinely interested, an unusual phenomenon inter-generationally outside family ties.

But then, being out in the woods, even on such an overcast, threatening day, cool and damp from last night's copious rainfall, would mellow anyone's mood. It is a tranquilizing experience, all sound muffled by the foliage gradually turning earthy tones of golds, browns, orange and red and smelling swooningly of tannin, the landscape rushing to invade one's aesthetic senses, filling the orbs of one's eyesight, satisfying the ingrained need to be with and in nature.

We occasionally came across retired military personnel walking schnauzers in the ravine, decades ago. They'd been assigned to Canadian military bases in Germany and brought back their family pets. We found the schnauzers to be pretty void of personality, not much interested in anything, and anything but lively. And usually kept on leash for fear they would wander off and not return.

We knew, because we'd taken out health insurance for our two little poodles that there was a premium levied in monthly insurance payments for some dogs, and the schnauzer brand was among them, susceptible to all kinds of physical ailments. Eventually, the earlier schnauzers we would come across reached their lifespan, an early one, in fact. One man we knew, on his second schnauzer, was coping with caring for the poor thing which had contracted diabetes.

And then, suddenly, we saw no more schnauzers being walked in the forest; gone, their numbers exhausted -- not that they were so numerous, to begin with. They seemed inoffensively ghostlike, nothing distinguishing them as far as personality, just ambling along with their human companions; perhaps their undemanding-for-attention propensity was what attracted people to them, who knows?

Kira was different. She was the runt of her litter, born with a breeder in Canada, and she distinguished herself by the force of her character. Truly one-of-a-kind. Where others were unremarkable, she most certainly wasn't. Kira was universally admired, as a spunky, active little dog who endeared herself to everyone. Kira on a leash? Not likely. She wanted to take her tennis ball everywhere with her, roll it down hills, romp after it excitedly, then repeat when she 'caught' it and returned it uphill.

You knew when Kira was nearby even if you hadn't yet seen her. She never barked. She had, instead, an exhilarated, high-pitched yip, that could be heard long before she hove into view. And she was always pleased and excited to see people and dogs she recognized; they returned the compliment.

She was much smaller than most miniature schnauzers, just cute as a button. It hasn't been that long since old age took its toll, so she's no longer around, and missed by everyone.

A week ago we met a three-and-a-half-month-old schnauzer. This was Tim-Bit, an adorable bit of fluff who looks as though he'll not be much larger than Kira was. And his personality? There in spades. Curious, friendly, happy-go-lucky and eager to play, play, play, as most puppies are. If there's anything in return to life after death, perhaps time will tell whether Tim-Bit is Kira's successor-presence....

Ottawa is distinguished not only by being the world's penultimate coldest and snowiest capital, but also in three seasons beyond winter, a city surrounded by green, with the added invaluable attribute of having great areas of parkland and even forested areas within the urban landscape. Aside from the vast acreage within a vibrant city of its well-known and beloved Experimental Farm there's the urban forest so many of us rely on to provide us with recreational exercise and ease among deciduous and coniferous trees.

Driving along the Eastern Parkway, as we do to access the downtown core of the city, we've come across deer, coyote and foxes among other creatures espied in the green areas of the parkway. These understandably elusive creatures use these green spaces with caution, since they're the same areas that are used by bicyclists, hikers and picnickers. Yesterday, as we drove along en route to Byward Market we came across Canada geese picking at the leavings of the RCMP's musical ride stable of horses.

And further along there was not a gaggle of geese, but rather of wild turkeys, birds of a good size and colourful display, casually making their way through a newly-mown field. Whatever we see on these drives represent a sighting adventure, increasing the pleasure of the pleasantly leisurely drive alongside the Ottawa River.

As we arrive closer to the city centre the views across the Ottawa River separating Ontario from Quebec are of the communities in Quebec adjacent the river, as picturesque a landscape as can be imagined. Yesterday was a cold, heavily overcast, windy day, so the river looked dark grey in its cast and anything but calm.

During the summer months there is plenty of watercraft making the most of the opportunity to celebrate the combination of warmth, sun, wind and water; all were absent yesterday. People who live alongside the river are no doubt already turning their thoughts to freeze-up, snow and ice, when they can put their ice huts out on the river and enjoy their winter sport of ice-fishing.

Despite the gloom of the weather and the return to seasonal cold, Byward Market brims with activity and colour. Nothing yesterday to compare with the vitality and sheer number of people, both tourists and residents who crowded the Market area two weeks earlier when we'd been enjoying unseasonably hot and sunny weather, but people still bustle about there in any type of weather conditions to access the proliferation of specialty shops, the many cafes and restaurants.

As a special site it represents one of Ottawa's unhidden treasures of which there are ample. So aren't we fortunate?!