As we walk under the trees the quick patter of water droplets make it sound as if it is raining, it isn't; it is just the falling of dew and the remnants of yesterday's downpour cascading gently through the leaves. Drops occasionally spatter us but we don't mind at all.
We carry on into the pine forest, following in the tracks of deer, listening to the birds call and the squirrels scatter. Under the trees it smells earthy and damp; bracket fungus grows on the fallen branches.
Then we are out into the clearing. It is still slightly misty but the sun is burning through. From here we have company, a photographer gazes patiently up into the trees, waiting for the right moment to click the shutter. A couple of walkers meander by, excited dogs on a long lead running ahead in anticipation.
At the edge of the clearing the stands little white house; it is boarded up now. When we first started to walk in these woods people lived here, there were children's swings and slides in the garden, wheel barrows by the back door and woodsmoke curling from the chimney. Now it is empty and forlorn.
The sun is coming out now, glinting through the twisted branches of the trees, as we make our way towards our destination we can feel its warmth spreading on our backs.
At last we reach the lake where the autumnal trees on the island glow and quiver in the sunlight.
The reflections are stunning; the ducks and geese take flight, calling, as if to tell us, of their joy at living here in this magical place.