I am at a hotel in Tours, on the way back to England. It is dark, raining gently, and I have just taken the dog for a walk. To one side of the hotel is a promenade, lined with twin rows of lime trees backed by beech hedges. All the leaves have turned deep yellow, and completely covered the path and the grass in a carpet of pale gold. There is gold overhead, gold to both sides, and gold on the ground. The rain is spiralling like tiny moths in the yellow light of the street lamps amongst the trees. It is almost like walking in bright sunshine.