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I tie my laces quickly, wanting to leave my home before the sky turns sour. Going out for a walk on a cold autumnal morning is one of the many pleasures I have in life. Greyish-blueish skies and bracing winds welcome me with their hearty embrace when I open the door into the outside excitement. I jump out into the woody alleys at a brisk pace, wrapping my coat around my body to fend off the cruel assaults of the chilly breeze. Autumn is a bright and shiny day, full of uncertainty and possibility.

I know that I’ll have to scrape the mud off the soles of my shoes when I come back, and smile as I step on orange and yellow leaves, still crispy from their untimely fall. The days are getting shorter, but hearing the howling melody of the wind scratches an itch I never knew I had. I turn a few corners, and end up hammering my boots on worn cobblestone paths. In those streets, children exhale hot breaths that turn into steam ; giggling, their cheeky roars are as mighty as those of dragons. With a polite nod, I greet fellow wanderers who speed by me to get home as quickly as possible ; the searing dream of a hot chocolate keeps them brave and sane, away from their freezing toes. Winter is starting to show the tip of its nose. Naively, we believe we still have time to enjoy those bonny days ; time stands still, watching me take the road less traveled. I tiptoe through freezing brooks ; my breath grows short as I start climbing the grassy hills. My mind wanders to visions of sharp, colourful pumpkins, and to those silly games that keep me busy during glum evenings. I remind myself to start a fire in our chimney when I come home, spotting dark clouds looming in the distance. An overused metaphor slip into the cracks of my mind as I sigh unwillingly : the scorching blazes summoned by the burning logs sparkle like the ones rumbling in the depths of my soul. Autumn is the light mist settling on my face as I hop over a damp tree trunk.

It hits me, as I try not to slip on slick pebbles, how strange going for a walk in that time of the year feels. Time stands still as I indulge in an escape from my fickle reality. It seems like there is no philosophical experience quite similar to this one (I know, I know, I can be a pretentious nitwit) ; it’s no wonder it inspired a whole tradition. The mechanical motion (left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot) acts as a trance as I get lost between the trees, breathing in the moss and tasting the foggy air at the tip of my tongue. I can never concentrate on my surroundings no matter how hard I try ; the worry-less chirps of valiant birds can never prevent me from getting lost in thought. The outdoors unlock a door to trust ; we lower our defences and let time flow on its own terms, without looking. The ascent has winded me, but I finally arrive at the top of the hill. I stop searching for a deeper meaning and take in the pastoral but colossal scenery that unfolds in front of my very eyes. Oh, how dizzy it makes me ! I sit down for a moment, enjoying the invigorating thrill. As I take in the woodland’s mossy humidity, a thought pops into my head. I realise that ultimately, Autumn by the sea is a match made in heaven. It conjures images of romantic poets screaming into the void and crying at the delightful sight of waves crashing on rocks, splattering their salty mists on unsuspecting bystanders who’ll eventually get attacked by seagulls. As I stand up and begin my downhill hike, I come to the realisation that I only truly understand John Keats when trodding along the river banks on a cold but sunny day. Autumn is a sensory overload, saturated with gourds and spiciness and heady scents, a “Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness” (John Keats, To Autumn).

Though I have to be mindful of the realms of the fae. Autumn is when our shields against the eerie unknown are the weakest. I hurry home as the sun starts to set. Gothic landscapes come alive as I shiver in the light rain, drenched to my bones. Passing through the cemetery, it welcomes me as I visit my ancestors (all of them) and hates to see me leave. Dead leaves float in the sky, keeping company to solitary kites. We paint ourselves in different shades to disguise ourselves, hiding from whatever haunts us. The cold air brings omens of croaking crows and defiant ravens, as I pull my hood closer to my ears. Tarot readings have become strangely accurate as of late ; a gloomy shadow was cast over my fool’s card. I close the door behind me as soon as I have passed the threshold. Early nights keep the bizarre at bay, and the thinness of the veil between those strange realities overwhelms me. Like a tightrope walker, I wander around multiple colliding universes as I keep myself occupied to stay calm, drawing barricades made of salt. Autumn is the candlelight flickering in a damp exterior, keeping the ghosts at bay.