Autumn is an adventure, a season of transformation, and a time to prepare for the long winter ahead. It is a thousand leaves falling to the ground and nourishing the soil beneath; it is heavy rainfalls that catch you off guard and drive you to shelter; it is the refreshing winds that sweep the haze of summer away; it is the calm before the storm. More than that, though, autumn is a celebration of senses, of new experiences for your eyes, ears, tongue, skin and nose; it rouses your consciousness after the calming effects of summer. Autumn isn’t the season of decay or death, but one of wealth and renewal. It is the changing landscape, the subtle anticipation of winter. Autumn is to be enjoyed.

Autumn is bold bursts of colour that leap from every corner of the landscape; it is golden yellow, fiery red, bright orange, and rich chocolate brown, and a faded green that reminds us of summer. It is an endless rolling landscape preparing itself for winter, the twinkling dew that clings to the cold grass and delicate spider webs, thick misty mornings and foggy evenings, and weak, watery sunlight that penetrates the skeletal trees. Autumn is a dappled night sky peppered with stars and clouds; it is a twinkle of sunlight captured in this morning’s rainfall, or a day that ends too soon. Now is the time for the beauty of harvest; for all of the colours that burst from the hedgerows and trees. Autumn is blackberries, rosehips, elderberries, holly, rowanberries, conkers, acorns, sloe berries, pine and alder cones, hawthorns, and ivy; the joy of collecting such bountiful treasures. It is thick, sticky mud and the stains on your boots, the glow of a candle within a deep orange pumpkin, and the flurry of birds that come to feed in your garden. Stand bathed in the glow of a bonfire, and watch fireworks dance across a deep purple sky.

Autumn is the scent of wet pavements, and the perfume of damp leaves as they lie trodden into the ground. It is the season of crackling bonfires, fireworks, and harvest; the aroma of a hundred fireworks’ smoky trails, disturbed embers, and intoxicating bouquets from recently ploughed fields. Autumn is the scent of a farmhouse kitchen; of fresh bread, newly baked plum pie, roasted chestnuts, and the sweet cologne of an over-flowing fruit bowl. It is the earthy tones of a recently carved pumpkin, the sweet tang of stewing apples, and the inviting odours of Christmas preparation. Autumn brings the fragrant rain; heavy, fat drops that cleanse everything that they touch. It is the season of renewal, when every breath invokes nature.

Autumn is the crunch of leaves as they scatter underfoot; it’s the rustles, rattles, and whispers of a woodland walk, and the wind whipping through bare branches and heaped foliage. It is the whistle of fireworks, and the crackle and pop as they burst into life; it’s the sputter and roar of a bonfire, a warning to keep your distance. Autumn is the season of squeals and giggles, and of laughter from painted faces.

Listen: silence hides a multitude of creatures. Autumn is the snuffle of hedgehogs as they creep through the grass, the twitter of birds as they come home to roost, the honk of geese as they seek warmer climes. It’s nature’s orchestra performing at its very best; every inch of the landscape strives to be heard. Autumn is the rain as it plops on the ground, drips into big metal buckets and soaks into the earth. It’s the cacophony of rainfall on a tin shed roof, the patter of streams as they form on the ground, and the gush of a woodland waterfall. Autumn is a playground filling with conkers that clash together; it’s leaf piles that have been disturbed by wellington-clad feet, the squelch of mud, and the trudging of feet on wet ground. It is the ooze of wet leaves between your fingers; of mud between your toes. It’s the chill of the rain as it dampens your skin, the cold, crisp air, and the roughness of the wind as it whips your cheeks. Step outside and embrace the chill in the air; autumn is the soft comfort of a warm woolly hat, the feel of a scarf as it slides around your neck, and the heat from a new pair of gloves. Now is the time for droplets of dew to form in the thick grass; ripple your fingers through the moist stems, and catch the beads as they drip and fall. Autumn is the heat of a roaring bonfire, the scold of stray ash, and the smothering curtain of smoke that envelops you; it’s the fizz of sparklers clenched in cold fists; the warmth of your breath as it escapes your lips. Autumn is damp socks after a long walk, crusts of mud that crack and crumble, and splashes that rain down after a satisfying puddle jump. It’s the roughness of logs as you arrange a home for a hibernating hedgehog, the prickle of a conker not yet out of its casing, the coarse edges of pine and alder cones collected by children. Autumn is a time for textured treasure; run your fingers through its landscape.

Louise Baker, 2016