They're relaxed enough, as long as they're with  us, while we're away. It's not as though the cottage we rent is unfamiliar to them. This is surely the sixth time they've lived in it with us for a week at a time when we twice yearly, spring and fall, travel to New Hampshire to vacation with them in the Waterville Valley. But when we were almost home yesterday after our long drive, and getting closer to home through the press of rush-hour traffic they knew also they were almost home. They were alert and excited at the prospect of being home again.

Everything falls neatly back into place for them. They nose about the backyard, spring into the house, wander about and finally settle back into their familiar routine. This morning everything went like the clockwork routine they're most familiar with. And when, after breakfast, and a bit of cleaning up and tidying, they intuited that we were about to embark on a trip to the ravine and they'd be hiking our own forest, their anticipated excitement led to a good vigorous chase around the house.

A lovely, warm day, with an expected high of 25C, clear skies, nary a breeze, and dry. In the forest interior, of course, it's quite a bit cooler, but extremely comfortable. On such a lovely late morning trek we were surprised not to see anyone else out on the trails. We did, some time later, come across an old acquaintance walking a neighbour's dog along with his own. It's an old dog that he takes special care with. The dog loves being on the trails, but he's so elderly that he wheezes continually with the effort expended.

The nicest of the fall asters are now in bloom. They don't, strangely enough, look as beautiful, full-petalled and bright pink as they usually do, and that's odd. You'd think they would thrive in this perfect weather, but they're only putting on a feeble show of it. Perhaps in the next few weeks to come the others will open and their full, buxom beauty will be on display.

It's always fascinating to see what has emerged on the forest floor, and spring and fall are the ideal seasons for fungi to emerge, in all their peculiar forms, shapes and colours. While we were away we saw some real dandies in the forests of the White Mountain range.

The bright berries of American bittersweet vines entwining themselves about and around other plants and trees are now showing off the fruit of their labours, so to speak. They've extended their reach in the forest over the years, a phenomenon we've seen repeated over time with many other types of vegetation, from horsetails, to dog strangulation vine to Engleman's ivy.

Jackie and Jillie re-acquainted themselves after their brief absence, with their own familiar forest, sniffing about here and there, picking up the messages that other dogs have left behind, marking the trails, the underbrush and anything that protrudes, as their uncontested territory. But of course that claim is contested, and vigorously, as our two left their own layer over the messages left by others, overtop, as though claiming the conquest of the forest as their own.

And then, just as we were leaving the ravine, having reached the top of the long hill dipping into it from street level, we came across a woolly bear caterpillar. So familiar from our childhoods. And as much a harbinger of fall to us as any other we've seen.