What does autumn mean to you?

 My friend Karen, who lives in Cardiff, posted to her fb a very particular appreciation. 

“Love Autumn, went for a wonderful walk last night, love the wind blowing the colourful leaves off the trees, fluttering down to the ground, the smell of earth in the air, wrapping up warm, gorgeous red skies and the smell of cinnamon baked apples in the oven.”

Not bad. If you had an air you could sing it. It is how I remember autumn as a child in England. That smell of the earth as if it was mouldering productively away at the task of turning the remains of summer into a springboard for spring to leap off after we have all gone: quiet, heads down, get through the winter, God is it still only February? type of way.

The first hint of autumn, that slight shiver in the evening and the dew on the fields often came as a surprise. Our family hols were frequently left to the last breath of the school holidays, so that our last days of summer overlapped with the first probings of autumn’s advance guard. I have often wondered why we left it so late, but now there is no one to ask.

Autumn, when you think about it is a PR job. The hedgerows bright with hips and haws – even if we are relentless city folk with no idea which is which – exist somewhere in our collective sense of rightness. We may know at an intellectual level that the reason the leaves turn red and gold is because the parent trees have robbed back all the useful nutrients, but emotionally we are thrilled by the autumn spectacle.

That first tang of chimney smoke in the air triggers in us a response both of welcome and nostalgia. Each of us recognises with satisfaction our own tribal smoke scent: wood, coal or turf (peat, if you like).

We love the fields and parks overlaid with gossamer webs heavy with dew, footmarks on grass, scuffling wellies in the rustling leaves, conker fights and home to a warm cup of cocoa in front of an open fire.

It is an irresistible construct designed to suck us into welcoming the traitor. The camouflage uniform of autumn’s soldiers disguise the horrible truth. Summer is gone – and it wasn’t that good – nihilistic winter is about to grip us for the next, let’s be honest, six months.

Rain, greyness, cold, snow, slush and transport problems, how to get the washing dry and “shut that door” – all about to become a long reality. But we blindly welcome this creature from the wilderness who brings a revenger, not a redeemer because he wears a cloak on which is written, “Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness …” 

Or perhaps not. Many people love the winter in the UK.

And my reality is different again. Here in Glossa summer gently declines into October and November. Gradually the days get shorter and cooler. The first rains come – tentative at first and the olives are harvested.

Released from the demands of a Greek island summer, people get together again. “How was your summer?”

In late September the autumn flowers will soften the rattle of bleached summer stems and sometime in November we’ll light our first fire. A call to Vangelis-the-Truck and a load of seasoned olive and almond logs will appear. Now that’s a blaze to enjoy.

It is not until after Christmas that winter begins throwing its weight around and two months later it starts to give up in the face of almond blossom, plum blossom and thousands of wild flowers carpeting the olive groves.

So, friend Karen, enjoy your autumn and I will enjoy another four weeks of warm sea swimming and looking forward to needing a proper cover on the bed. The swallows have gone but the summer will be here for a while longer.

Let's talk.