f there has been a more spectacular show of autumn trees in Britain this century I cannot recall it. And from my own travels from Inverness to Cornwall, it appears to be universal across the country. Here in Buxton, the beeches, limes and sycamores that line many streets have presented an astonishing bonfire of colour. We have taken to doing the rounds most afternoons to catch it one more time, before the blaze dies away. The joy of the phenomenon is the all-pervading and cumulative impact of the beauty, rather than it being dependent on any single scene. In fact, trying to capture it with a camera is self-defeating. A firework of colour rises up just beyond every framed shot and it all changes endlessly with the passing cloud or the re-emergence of late sunshine. Nor does sunset end the pleasures. Even the wet paths in complete darkness have a residual smouldering glow from the fallen foliage, while the beam of a street lamp can reignite one tree in strange ways. The outstretched fingers of horse chestnut leaves can become cupped hands around green fire, while the floodlights over school playing fields allow you to see the sycamores above, flaming silently into the night. On a slightly sadder note I see that the trees have a kind of unequal distribution. The council estates in Fairfield, which traditionally hold the town’s lower-income community, are so much poorer in street vegetation. The biggest display of seasonal colour is literally in the leafier suburbs. There is consolation, however, in the thought that the enjoyment of any part is never confined just to those who live on that street. We should recall the deeper substratum of sharing, which invites a vision of a single conjoined community of people and trees. Because when the latter photosynthesise, they absorb carbon and expel oxygen in a reversal of our own respiration. It is highly likely that the carbon molecules that constitute the town’s trees will include exhaled breath from every single person who lives here.