November bike riding is not like the salad days of July. No longer does every verge present itself as the perfect chaise longue on which to recline; favourite “dawdling places” have become damp and inhospitable. But autumn brings its own intimacies.  Summer leaves hide much of the land through which you pedal, but with the fall, secrets are shared. Like the track winding up the straw coloured hill. I’ve frequently come this way, but never noticed the path.Leaving my mount by the gate, the trail led me through a herd of roan cattle. From the protective flanks of the adults, two calves watched as I reached the sycamore growing on the ­summit. High above, in an unexpectedly blue sky, a buzzard wheeled; down in the valley, a deserted house. I’ve seen this rubb