Many people love the sun, and summer. They can’t wait for summer to start, for the sun to shine. But not me.
I’ve never really enjoyed summer. I burn easily, even with the highest suncream factor in existence. It seems like a small complaint, but the burns hurt. A lot. And I’m not good in extremely hot weather. It messes with my concentration, my sleep, my appetite.
This year, it has grown on me a little. There were a lot more flowers than usual. In Inverness, I marvelled at rhododendrons. At Arundel, I was mesmerised by tulips. In Hertfordshire, I was amazed by roses. But I still love autumn. And I look forward to autumn, every year.
There is something just so magical about it. The leaves shimmer, transforming from greens to reds, oranges, yellows, in a beautiful magic that will always mesmerise me with wonder. With colour in the world, it feels more hopeful, more joyful. And I love its sounds, the rustle of leaves and the crunch of acorns underfoot, the snapping of conkers as they fall and the song of the wild wind.
And I have always loved rain. I love the sound of it, the droplets that sing as they fall. I love the scent it leaves behind; the rich petrichor that trails through the trees, fresh, pure, intoxicating. It never fails to calm my busy mind. It refreshes everything, washing away the worries in my mind. And it makes the world come alive, rich with birdsong and fragrant with the scents of nature.
I love autumn, and enjoy it every year. I know I should love summer instead, but I don’t. I am not afraid to admit, that I love autumn.
