Reading the signs

It’s amazing what rain can do.

Just a couple of weeks ago, the landscape around home was dry and barren, yellow stretching across fields where green would normally dominate and water was in increasingly in short supply.

Since then, it has rained, and rained.

The once-parched fields and grassy areas are vibrant and lush again. In places, it’s almost as though the heatwave never happened.

As the conditions have changed, the wildlife has begun to return too.

Some are the usual autumn arrivals - greylag geese, gadwalls and little egrets - while others, familiar staples, are now venturing out again and returning to the trees and hedgerows with their fresh winter feathers.

I don’t remember another year feeling quite so sparse in terms of our usual wildlife. For several months, there seemed remarkably little to photograph. Now, almost every day brings something.

I’m in my element.

I feel reconnected to the landscape and find myself eager to get outside each day just to see what might appear.

There have been some real delights this week. The deer appear to be everywhere, emerging unexpectedly from the miscanthus, hiding in dikes and disappearing almost as quickly as they arrived.

Kestrels shriek overhead as they hunt. Grey herons patrol the river’s edge looking for their next meal, and last night a great white egret perched briefly at the top of a tree before descending at speed towards the old fishing pond.

A pair of swans have taken up residence in the riverside pond. The water is now so shallow that the banks have joined in the middle at one end and. When the swans stand, you can see their legs beneath them.

The green sandpiper is often there, although it rises screeching every time we approach. I've yet to capture it on camera as anything more impressive than a disappearing blur.

It’s funny how, when you spend enough time in one place, you begin to learn its rhythms.

On Friday, I said to my husband, “The geese will be back soon.”

By Monday, they had appeared.

I don’t consciously keep a calendar of these things, but somehow, I know. When you return to the same landscape again and again, you notice what comes and goes. You remember what happened before. You begin to recognise the signs, and almost sense what might happen next.

Almost.

Because nature always retains the capacity to surprise.

The horse chestnuts are signalling the change too, their spiky green cases beginning to split to reveal glossy brown conkers. They make me think of my Grandad, who used to take us out when we were little to knock them from the trees with sticks found on the ground nearby.

It's funny how something so small can transport you back decades. A conker isn't just a sign of autumn to me; it carries memories of childhood, of my Grandad, and of something we did together.

Maybe that's another reason that I'm so drawn to noticing the changing seasons. Places, sights and sounds become part of our own personal calendars too. We don't just notice that something has returned, we remember all the other times it has returned before.

On Monday, the clouds were spectacular - a beautiful mottled pattern across the sky, apparently signalling the change in weather that would arrive a few hours later. That night, the rain came down like a monsoon.

On Tuesday, the Ouse had waves. The fast-flowing river met strong winds travelling in the opposite direction, creating a sound remarkably like waves crashing onto a beach.

Every day there is something different to notice.

Perhaps that's one of the reasons I love being outdoors so much. Nothing stays completely still. Conditions change. Things disappear and return. What seemed barren begins to grow again.

I’m excited to see what the autumn brings this year. Hopefully plenty of fungi now that the rain has provided what they need to grow.

And sometimes, change happens because somebody does something.

I was reminded of that in a very different setting this weekend.

I have an annual race day with a friend. When we visited York Racecourse in June, I had an experience with the catering which left me unwell for several days.

I thought long and hard about whether to say anything.

Eventually, I decided to offer some constructive feedback. I wasn't looking to complain for the sake of complaining; I wanted to explain what had happened and why it mattered.

The response was incredibly positive, and I was invited to return and enjoy another day with my friend.

I was reluctant, and it took a little persuasion to get me there.

I'm so glad that I went back.

I discovered that my feedback had contributed to significant changes in processes and procedures, including a separate area of the kitchen for allergens. Our experience could not have been more different.

What impressed me most wasn't simply that something had changed.

It was how they had responded to my feedback.

They could have become defensive. They could have explained away what had happened, or treated it as an isolated mistake.

Instead, they listened, acknowledged, and acted.

The result is not simply that I had a better experience. Future diners with food allergies, intolerances or Coeliac disease should have a safer and more enjoyable one too.

There is something quite powerful about that., and they certainly have my recommendation.

Speaking up can feel uncomfortable. Listening without defensiveness can feel uncomfortable too. Yet sometimes, one thoughtful conversation really can lead to meaningful change.

Perhaps that idea has been following me around this week.

The little people in my life have all returned to school, ready for another year of learning, absorbing and discovering.

Maybe learning and adapting aren't confined to the little people.

Over the coming months, I want to turn some attention back towards my own health and fitness. A painful Achilles injury has curtailed so much of my usual activity over the last two years, and perimenopause has brought its own lessons - fluctuating hormones, a body that doesn't always respond as predictably as it once did, and an internal thermostat that seems to have abandoned any pretence of temperature control!

I'm looking forward to rebuilding my fitness, walking further and cycling again, but perhaps with a little more patience than I might once have afforded myself. Not trying to force my way back to where I was, but noticing what my body needs now and adapting to it.

There's something fitting about doing that as the season changes.

Nature doesn't resist the fact that conditions have altered. It responds to them. Growth speeds up, slows down, disappears from view and emerges again in a different form.

Perhaps there's a lesson in there for those of us navigating changing seasons of our own.

That thinking is feeding into some ideas I'm beginning to explore for Nemophilist C&W too.

One of the interesting things about being a coach is that you don't become immune to needing to challenge yourself.

A conversation this week made me recognise that perhaps I've been waiting a little too patiently.

Building something new requires experimentation. It means trying things before you know whether they'll work. It means making invitations that people might say no to. It means stepping beyond the safety of the familiar and putting myself out there.

I'm considering some small, informal themed walks around Skipwith Common - perhaps for people navigating perimenopause, leaders, new business owners or carers. Not necessarily coaching, but an opportunity to walk, talk, connect and spend time alongside others who may understand something of the same territory.

I'll share more as those ideas develop.

I continue to work with colleagues on a potential collaborative project, and I'm looking forward to coaching this week. Next week, I'm heading to London for a coaching conference with peers. It'll be my first trip there for a while and, after being mugged on a previous visit, I'll admit to feeling a little apprehensive about going back.

I've even had further inspiration about my idea for a children's book and how it can also include life lessons for parents as partners in their child's reading journey.

I'm also going to open a small number of autumn introductory coaching places during the next month.

For people who have wondered what outdoor coaching might be like, I'll offer a four-session outdoor coaching package at a significantly reduced introductory rate. I'll also have a small number of reduced-rate four-session online coaching packages.

Four conversations. Time to step away from some of the noise, work out what matters now, and decide what you want the next few months to look like.

And, outdoors, the chance to witness the changing season whilst perhaps considering a season of change of your own.

Maybe that is what this week has really been about.

The rain came, and the landscape responded.

The wildlife returned.

Feedback was offered, heard, and acted upon.

Children returned to classrooms ready to discover what comes next.

And I've realised that I need to respond too.

Autumn will bring a slightly braver Carolyn - inspired by a summer of growth and connection, by the people around me, and by the extraordinary everyday things I am lucky enough to witness outdoors.

I don't know yet what will come from all of it.

But perhaps, like the geese returning, you don't always need to know exactly what is coming.

Sometimes you notice that the conditions have changed - and recognise that it's time to move.

Welcome, autumn.