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Autumn. It’s lovely. The sun’s low, the leaves are golden, the air is crisp. Food becomes more comforting – stews, mashed potatoes, cosy roasts on a Sunday. The clothes are nicer – snuggly knitwear in luscious, jewel colours. Even though Summer’s over, there’s an air of optimism as we know party season is on it’s way. And, well, I just like the whole “hunker down & enjoy a nice cup of tea & a good book while you listen to the rain on the window”-ness of it all.

I could wax lyrical for ages, but to be honest, others have done it better than I ever could. So, take it away, Mr Keats.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimmed their clammy cell.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies

To be honest, I prefer Shelly’s efforts, but he doesn’t seem to find the optimism I do in Autumn

Now, who fancies snuggling under this lovely blanket & enjoying a massive cup of tea and some shortbread, while we watch an old movie? Mmmmm, cosy!