"Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness" runs the first line of Keats "Ode To Autumn", which I committed to memory for O-Level English, 1973. Re-reading it just now, it's clear that it's paen to late summer or early autumn, not to the autumn that really stirs my imagination, which is now, after the clocks have gone back - some people might call that winter. The French revolutionaries renamed "Novembre", "Brumaire" for the word for fog. So, how perfect, when I heard the weather forecast on Saturday evening that the whole of London would wake to a counterpane of thick fog, pulled up right under our chin, on the first day of the new month. It's relatively rare these days, but fog is the ultimate weather for the imagination. To me it reminds me a lot of what I find so evocative about this country at this time of year: the early dusk, the damp earth, the shapes of trees stripped bare with the neutral space above, the lush brown carpet of leaves, the al fresco cup of tea, the prospect of a hot bath. It's a time for the country, not the town; the fire, not the heating; the radio, not the TV; sleep not wakefulness. So much of it though is connected to the passage of time, the slight wistfulness and the comforting melancholy of the dark times ahead. Love it.