The season of mists and mellow fruitfulness part of the poem by John Keats, probably best defines Autumn to me. There is a definite change in the air, a slight nip to the mornings, evenings drawing in and the need to wrap up just a little bit warmer.
There are still harvests to pick, the garden to tidy and slowly put to sleep for winter:
For those of us with wood burners, logs to be bought, stored and brought inside, kindling to be chopped, newspapers to be begged and also stored. Pine cone stores to be looked at and the decision made whether to go out for a pine cone walk to top them up.
Chutneys, jams and relishes to be made and squirrelled away for the colder months and early warmer months next year.
For me though, one of the difining times is the arrival of rainbows in my dining room: