One of my favourite Sunday activities - and something I’d really like to do more - is to walk from Lendal Bridge in the centre of York, down the riverside path to Clifton Ings. Originally an eighteenth-century racecourse on the outskirts of the city of York Clifton Ings is now an open space which functions as a temporary storage area, or wash-land, for flood water coming off the River Ouse in the autumn and winter.

Along with Rawcliffe and Poppleton Ings nearby, this storage facility, which is controlled by sluice gates to let water into and out of the fields, can accommodate 2.3 million cubic metres of water, which then lowers the water level in the city centre by up to 150mm. York floods almost every year and so there are several defences in place as well as the Ings - the clever use of embankments, barriers (the River Foss Barrier in particular) and walls as well as other wash-land storage. Flood season here is dramatic and I imagine that many people are engaged in trying to work out how to best to deal with rising water levels, particularly after the disasters of 2015. We’re heading into that season here (it’s pouring with rain as I write!) but for now, Clifton Ings is empty, of both water, and of cattle, who sometimes graze there during the summer.

Although it’s not outside the city, I love going there because it does feel as if, just for a while, you’re surrounded by nature. York’s only a small city and it’s easy to get out into the countryside, but if you don't have a car, or you only have an hour or two and need a fields-and-trees fix, then this is my favourite way of doing it!

On this occasion, I started my walk in the Museum Gardens. Our local advertising newspaper runs a monthly local history column with which I’m just a little bit obsessed! A few months back, the article was about the lost swimming pools of York and it cited this spot, in the south-west corner of the Gardens as the site of a now-demolished Victorian pool. Apparently, one of the features of the pool was a dragon’s head made out of pipes (which sounds amazing and terrifying in equal measures!) I couldn’t spot any signs of the former swimming spot, but it was lovely to walk here, looking at the leaves changing colour and spotting squirrels. I also found the piece of masonry shown below, lining the path, which does look a bit like a dragon’s head. Not made of out pipes, but rather, a fairytale dragon, possibly turned to stone by a curse. Now, he’s fated to lie here, overgrown with moss and covered in falling leaves and berries, small spiders weaving webs around his ears and sunlight moving across his snout. Dreaming away the years until the curse is lifted.

Slipping out of the Museum Gardens through a gate, hidden at the end of a winding path, I joined the riverside walk, where piles of golden leaves lie in drifts, just waiting to be kicked up or crunched underfoot.

There are a lot of unusual plants along this path, although I have no clue what the name of this intriguing

tree is. Damn, Roger Deakin would be ashamed of me! The path and the fields by the river are also home to wildlife, particularly the rare Tansy beetle. In fact, a thirty kilometre stretch of this riverbank beside the Ouse is one of only two spots in the UK where these beetles are found nowadays (there is a smaller colony to be found in Cambridgeshire).

Tansy beetles are only a few centimetres long and have the most gorgeous iridescent grass-green and copper - indigo shells (legend has it that the Victorians used these shells as sequins!). They’re fascinating too - the tansy plant is their only source of sustenance and their sole habitat - mating occurs here and the female beetle lays her eggs on the underside of the leaves. The larvae then emerge and feast on the plant before burrowing under it for the winter to grow into fully formed adults. If one tansy plant is destroyed, beetles must walk to another, since they cannot fly. Mating can last up to twenty-four hours and, in beetle colonies elsewhere, elaborate courtship rituals have been observed, which include the male tapping the female (pun intended!) on the eyes and antennae with his own antennae before commencing the deed.

Tansy beetles strike me as rather elegant, eccentric little creatures, wintering underground, summering in the Tansy patch and engaging in elaborate social rites, but so delicate and vulnerable to a whole set of dangers, from predators (particularly birds) to the loss of their natural habitat.

At this point, when I can see only water and green stretching into the distance, my shoulders go down and I feel so much more relaxed. If this picture came with a sound effect it would be a kind of ‘aaahhhh.’ The sort which also accompanies the first sip of tea in the morning. You know.

Finally here! Just behind these railings are the sluice gates to let flood water in and out. Ooh, and there are some cows!

Same view, but to the right. If you continue on this track, you can walk all the way to Beningbrough Hall, a National Trust property about eight miles away.

On the way back, it began to rain and I liked the interesting patterns the rain made on the pavement. So here’s er, a close up shot of wet pavements! I especially like the little bit of blue which has come through here.

Walking back into the City feels like a strange sort of ritual in some ways. The path goes under railway bridges and through gaps in the city walls until you feel as though you’re passing up through concentric circles in some sort of medieval manuscript diagram of heaven. Perhaps this is just me, but there is something romantic about feeling as if you're passing through a series of boundaries into the heart of the city. That’ll be the lapsed-medievalist in me then!

I just liked the pattern which the tangle of branches on this tree made, and the way the leaves look as though they’re just floating, lemony discs suspended in the air.

And suddenly, just like that, I’m back, with a cold nose but feeling relaxed and spacious. Ready for apple crumble, red wine and a viewing of The Fellowship of the Ring with my housemates. Oh, Autumn!