An Ode to
autumn.
Warning;
this post contains a lot of adjectives.
I am about
to wax lyrical about autumn. For me there is a sumptuousness surrounding autumn
that cements it to the number one spot out of all the seasons. Don’t get me
wrong, summer is great, there’s something to be said for lounging, bare
skinned, on exposed roof terraces sipping crisp rosé wines, or eating fresh
lobster salad and knocking back fruit cocktails until the wee hours.
Summer for
me depicts a sensual break to the year, a time for gallivanting off on breaks
in Europe, warm tanned skin, and summer barbecues and campfires, chatting late
into the night and the early morning.
Autumn and
winter on the other hand have a rich warmth, a depth to them. Autumn is about
scurrying home before dark falls, reaching for thick winter knits, musty after
months languishing in drawers and wardrobes. Autumn is about wrapping up,
whether in tactical layers of coats and scarves, or slow Sunday spend under the
blanket in the lounge, hours passing by below grey skies, the soft pitter
patter of rain against the windows, as hearty dinners bubble away in the oven.
On a few
occasions now I have heard autumn described as sofa season, a time to spend
with loved ones, watching gripping dramas and dark box sets. But I also dream
of crisp mornings, frosty walks to the local pub, an hour spent in front of a
roaring fire, sipping mulled cider and rich red wines. Before donning winter
woollies once more and trudging home, to warm soup and crusty bread, thick with
butter.
During
winter I become overly excited about clothes. Summer is unpredictable, a warm
spell of 27 degrees can quickly give way to grey skies and storms. Light
dresses become useless as winds pick up and temperatures drop. Evenings in
London become sticky, a heavy humid feeling hangs in the air, pressing clothes
against the skin in a way that makes us want to shower every half an hour. But
winter; autumn and winter are cold, in either a wet, condensation kind of way,
warm breath clinging to wool scarves, or in a numbing, frozen to the bone kind
of feeling. When fingers without gloves become useless for texting, faces are
chapped, noses are red. Winter is for boots, a long coat that traps in heat. Getting
dressed for winter makes one feel as though you are about to embark on an
adventure.
Autumn is
about fire, not in a barbecue sense, but big bonfires, wood burning stoves
heating homes, logs crackling in grand fireplaces. Not to mention the
fireworks, they usually start at the end of November and then can often run
through to New Year, a glittering celebration in the midst of dark winter.
And let’s
not forget Christmas. The parties and frivolity, sequins and jewel toned
dresses, party food and finger buffets signalling the start of an all-out feast.
Christmas really is all about the socialising. Traipsing round several family
members’ homes for drinks, laughing and singing and being joyous, before doing
it all again the next day.
Autumn is
for the senses, if it isn’t water pale sunsets in the early evening catching my
eye, it’s the crunch of frost bitten leaves underfoot. Or, the smell of stews,
a welcome warmth upon entering homes with the heating on.
For me the
cold isn’t a bad thing, it’s a chance to get wrapped up, bunker down. Yes the
mornings are dark and the evenings are chilly, but that is something to be
celebrated, because the sweet sticky heat of summer will soon be back.
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