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.