Autumn – that enchanting season where Mother Earth gently reminds us of life’s cyclical nature: the ebb and flow of endings and beginnings, of birth and decay and renewal.

Sir Beaumont of Sheepadoodle and I are walking along a ridge above the river. With each step we take take, leaves crunch and whisper stories beneath our feet. Sunbeams dance on the river, making the water come alive with a joyous shimmer.

The world moves, yet in this moment, it feels still.

As Beaumont and I meander along the ridge above the river, the vast eastern sky stretches out, painted in hues of serene blue streaked with white clouds billowing up. To the west, an impending storm, threatening to draw into the vast blueness above us. The wind howls gathers strength. Golden leaves dance on the ground, the crisp autumn breeze urging them to let go and release their bodies to its beguiling nature..

As we walk, we chance upon a woman, her camera ready to capture nature’s magic. Further along, a couple stand, their arms heavy with fishing gear. “Any luck?” I ask. “Too late in the season,” they respond. But their lack of fishing success didn’t deter Beau. Eager for affection, he dances and whines with his eternal request to, “Pet me. Pet me.” The man happily obliges, and for a brief moment, two strangers connect over a shared love for a dog.

The journey continues. My hair dances to the rhythm of the wind, and the distinctive sounds of autumn serenad us. I take a deep, invigorating breath, basking in the sheer vitality of the moment.

We venture east, then turn back towards the west, where the approach of ominous clouds cast a shadow over the mountains in the distance.

And then, as if a painter has suddenly hurled white paint against a dark canvas, divine rays of light break through, painting the sky with celestial elegance. “Look at that,” I whisper to Beau, awed by the spectacle.

I stand and watch and soak it in and that’s when I hear it. Above the familiar sounds of the ridge before a storm, a new melody emerges as if carried on a magic carpet out of the darkness of the western skies – the soulful cry of a violin.

Curious, I hurry westward.

And there, atop the ridge, stands a figure. Dressed in sleek black lycra with a vivid yellow jacket, he stands next to a resting bike, a violin nestled against his neck. An open backpack, a music stand with sheets pinned to its frame, the papers fluttering in the breeze, large headphones that seem out of place in this natural setting. Yet, lost in his music, the world around him ceases to exist.

Beau, ever the curious canine, continues exploring, but I am spellbound. The violinist’s passionate performance feels like a mystical bubble of wonder, resonating with the very essence of the serene landscape around.

Each note of his song brushes against my soul, speaking awe in every fibre of my being.

Eyes closed, he plays oblivious to my presence. I stand and listen and close my eyes and soak it all in.

Like light streaming through the clouds, gracing the world with beauty and wonder, his notes embrace me with the magic of a moment where man, nature and music became one symphonic dance of joy.

I open my eyes and walk on, back towards my car. Back towards home.

And still, no matter where I go, I carry the music with me.

Namaste.