Autumn is fast approaching. Its chilly today, so maybe it has already arrived. Its been a dull cool summer so it feels more melancholy to me than usual. People seem to love this time of year in the UK. It’s true, that its beautiful. I live on the edge of the Forest of Dean, and those ancient forests are show stoppingly gorgeous, in a way that gets you lost in thought, wondering about the people who have admired them generations before you, and of those who will still enjoy them long after the people who live here today are gone.

The colours are not lost on me. I enjoy the crunching of the leaves underfoot too. I LOVE that distant smell of woodsmoke. Or the sight of the faint purplish blue tongue of the smoke as it rises in the distance beyond some bronze horizon.

But for me, Autumn always feels bitter sweet. Faintly sad. The polar opposite of how I feel in Spring. Stuck here in a sort of limbo, between a fading summer, and a promised winter.

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