One can already sense autumn in the air. By day it remains balmy, but the nights have taken on a keen chill, falling to 50F. To me, this is perfect weather. You can work hard and not sweat, whether it is the backbreaking labor of splitting wood by hand or the merely demanding work of harvesting potatoes. Biting insects are all but gone. The snow is months off. It is time to turn my mind to the gathering of firewood, the sacred Hunt, the smoking of meat and the making of sausage, the brewing of next year’s black ale and golden cider, the setting of the faerie plates.
Autumn is far and away my favorite time of year. Always has been. I love the rustle of mature leaves. The bite in the air. The turning of the leaves. Camping deep in the forest and roasting rabbits on green spits over hot coals, while under them potatoes bake between stacked rocks. In the gardens, the last of the harvest matures–the corn and the pumpkins and the leeks; all favorites. The air around the homestead is often scented with smouldering chips of alder and apple as venison, chicken and sausages cure in the smoke house. The brook seems to run clearer and the sun sparkles brighter in the pure sky.
Natalia and I can ride Acorn and Aval through the mountains and feel the wild north wind coming into its own and the land’s own sprites whisper their secrets to me most clearly. Never in words, but always in ways most meaningful.
Autumn comes, and brings treasures with it.