Autumn

'Season of mist and mellow fruitfulness' (John Keats - To Autumn 1820)

There is something so very special about autumn, something enormously comforting and sumptuous. The stunning visual display of the trees and woodlands, the smell of wood smoke and sweet rotting apples in the orchards and a preparation for winter. A time for hibernation, stacking the logs for the onset of the colder evenings, stocking up the larders with home made jams and chutneys and the selection of new ingredients and produce the season brings.

Again, we turn to food: Hearty stews with dumplings and thick, restorative soups, an assortment of game as the shooting season begins, roasting chestnuts outdoors and the puddings which of course get warmer and stickier as we all acquire our extra layers for the colder months.

The colours offer a feast for the eyes, the beauty of the misty mornings and, my favourite, the autumn ritual of walks in the woods to marvel at the abundance of shiny conkers, crisp, fallen leaves of every shape and size and array of fungi, the forager's delight. All this followed by the scramble back home to the warmth of the kitchen, struggling to pull off muddy wellies, drying out the obligatory collection of treasures (including pine cones to burn on the fire) and curling up with a creamy hot chocolate or mug of soup by the fireside.

It is also a time of festivals, commencing with the traditional celebration of the harvest festival which benefits those in our communities most in need, but also the plethora of Apple Fests (particularly in this part of the country) and well received Beer Festivals promoting the darker ales and porters to toast the progressing year, often accompanied by the display of the Morris (men) upholding tradition with a welcome for the new season.

 

At October's end, All Hallows' Eve, believed to have both pagan and Christian beginnings, comes candlelit ghost stories, apple bobbing and smiling pumpkins lighting up the night. I have always celebrated this time of year and embraced the oncoming darker evenings with thoughts of the mystery they may hold.

For me, autumn culminates with Guy Fawkes night and again, a stimulation of the senses: the smell of sausages spitting on outdoor grills, the fizzing of the fireworks, huge bonfires spiked with hot potatoes, the both sweet and sour delight of toffee apples and children holding sparklers in their tiny gloved hands, writing their names into the darkness, their faces lit up with enchantment and fascination.

I recall a couple of favourites, the first, many years ago in the Gloucestershire village of Gotherington where my aunt lived, a local event where all the village had come together in celebration of that one night, so steeped in long forgotten history. The night was so very dark, as country nights are, that the muddy lanes and paths were lit only by hand torches and the moon. I remember the feeling of being part of something, a gathering, a community. The second, only last year, was at a pub called The Crown at Frampton Mansell, near Stroud. If you get a chance to visit, then do! They host an amazing display. Last year, the theme was the Olympics and for the finale, the grand construction of the rings over Tower Bridge were lit and we watched as they slowly disintegrated into the night sky.

Our country is so full of tradition, of folk lore and ritual, Celtic, Pagan, Christian, all deeply entwined and celebrated still. This time of year has a calendar full to brimming, all set against the wonderful backdrop of the changing colour and transposing landscape, magnificently emblazed by the bright harvest moon.