There’s something special to be found in all the seasons, but my heart belongs to the growing dark. I find something soothing in the winding down, in the retreat, and as an introvert, it feels like coming home. And of course, there is a beauty in the slow decay that comes with autumn. The trees put on a colour show far more beautiful than any illuminations.

There are still apples on the trees, rosey in their ripeness or perhaps windfallen and bruised and I’ve just plucked the last of the ripe tomatoes from the vines. Some have split and others are not quite as firm as you’d like for a sandwich but these are great for cooking with.

Don’t you think ghost stories are another herald of the darker months? Not the stories of gore designed to frighten and elicit screams, but stories with more than a hint of truth, the stories of loss and tragedy…