Autumn … ‘season of mists and mellow fruitfulness … close-bosom friend of the maturing sun.’
I memorised the words of Keat’s Ode to Autumn when I was at school. And as I have grown older, Keat’s words seem to hang in the air on walks through the countryside on an October day, the ploughed fields mellow-gold, the trees turning red and yellow, ‘barred clouds’ on the horizon which ‘bloom the soft-dying day.’
But as much as Autumn is about walks in the countryside, for me it’s about coming home, about the feeling of security when the curtains are drawn early, the outside air turning chill and cold but the house warm inside, snuggling up in front of the fire or under a blanket in an armchair, hot toasted butter and cake for tea, windows streaming with condensation in the morning, the anticipation of Christmas.
