The last of the swallows and house martins have left taking their young with them , wheeling across counties , countries and continents to warmer climes .Their mud nests are left empty clinging precariously to the undersides of the eaves in the village houses and barns awaiting their return next spring . Horse chestnut trees with their leaves rusting at the edges await the annual onslaught of little boys with sticks seeking that prized champion conker .The recently ploughed Devon red fields are already showing a translucent green sheen as the warm weather brings on the winter wheat . In the early morning dew ,bejewelled cobwebs hang in the hedgerows like intricate antimacassars creating a fairytale vision of delicate beauty .
The hanging baskets and window boxes which filled our high street with colour are now tired and overblown almost begging for that first frost to let them surrender to the inevitable march of the seasons .Some brave dahlias are giving one last defiant burst of gaudy colour ; flowers the size of dinner plates turn their faces to the sun .Baskets of unwanted apples appear on doorsteps and there is feeling of waiting - waiting for autumn to really set in - an anticipation of the of the season which will gradually cloak the countryside with its coat of many colours .
Angry and upset
" No room at the Inn " ! 
A plea to the PSP Assoc for an improved forum. 
