For as long as I can remember (and that’s some sixty-two years…), autumn has been my favourite season by several country miles, and for once there’s a very simple reason for it. It suits my mood, it resonates with my soul, the moreso as I enter my own autumn. It’s… the faded (and fading) majesty… the pervading feeling of gentle melancholy… the sense of the year winding down. I’ve been to the US in the fall (not a vile Americanism, btw: Shakespeare used it) and while it’s utterly spectacular, it’s also a tad overpowering, whereas the British autumn is a far more subtle process entirely. Autumn is how I feel made manifest: I can’t express it better than that. The light, the aromas, the subtle yet intense colours, the fogs and mists, the days drawing in… what’s not to love ? And I do. I love it very much.
