There is just something about this glorious Autumn weather that makes me want to don a Fair Isle sweater and go stomping off into the forest, all on my own. I want to crunch and kick my way through mountains of scarlet leaves and tilt my face to the golden sun as it trickles down through the canopy of oaks and beeches. I want to smell wood smoke on the wind, and let it take me down sweet winding paths of nostalgia, the echos of my childhood self laughing ahead of me as we go. I want to stop as many times as I like to smile at the red squirrels that bound across my path and to talk out loud to the little robin that sings so sweetly by the riverbank.
As the leaves fall and the woods enter their honeyed decay, I find my creative self blooming within me like the tendrils of spring. The heady summer nights give way to candles and cashmere, and my fingers are ever scented with clementines. No longer driven out by the oppressive heat and the beckoning finger of late-night jazz and whiskey, my Autumn evenings become filled with reading, writing, poetry and crafts. What a gorgeous season it is, heralding the return of the artistic self.
To keep your hearts glowing as the nights grow cold, here is my favourite Autumn poem by the wonderful John Keats. Best recited aloud while cycling past orchards and fields brimming with pumpkins and gourds.
Ode To Autumn, John Keats 1820