While most people mourn the slow death of summer, the long days and the warm nights, I feel a quiet thrill as September arrives. I am a July baby, born in the heart of summer, yet my soul belongs to autumn.
For most, January is the beginning of the year. But for me, September is the turning point of the year, the start of something new. Perhaps it is a hangover from school days, but September still feels like the true start of things. It holds intentions, not the weary resolutions of winter’s dead middle.
Autumn is cosy chaos. The air becomes crisp with intention. The leaves turn red and golden before falling to the ground, and there is something deeply comforting about autumn, breathing in the scent of crisp air and wet earth. It’s the season of quiet introspection and gentle routines. It’s the season for leaf crunching walks, for books that match the grey and drizzly atmosphere and for early, candle lit evenings. As someone who has travelled to most corners in the world, I can say this without hesitation: there is no better city on earth than London in the sun, but London in the autumn is something else entirely. The parks are golden and perfect for autumn walks. The pubs are warm and cosy, filled with the scent of mulled wine and roast dinners, and the city hums with seasonal events.
But beyond the aesthetics, autumn feels nostalgic. In days past, there would be the excitement (or dread) of a new school year but as an adult, there is rest and revaluation. I once heard someone say, “September is the thinking person’s January”, and I believe it.
And of course, as Jordan Baker so perfectly puts in F Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby “Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.”