I’ve probably said this a few times, but it often strikes me as curious how, in the past few years I’ve been transformed from someone for whom Autumn was her most detested season to genuine enjoyment of this time of year. As a city-dwelling lecturer whose mood disorder had developed seasonal associations, I utterly loathed dark nights and short days and feared October and November just because I knew I’d inevitably end up feeling low. Yet, after moving to a rural location; ensuring that I walk for an hour every single day in the light and air whatever the weather; by working for myself; by pacing my work; and through simply loving my surroundings, I am often utterly astounded by how very beautiful Autumn is. I still get low (that’s how I am) but somehow the pattern of my moods has detached itself from the rhythm of the seasons, and Autumn has (happily) lost its malefic force for me.
Sometimes the light and colours around our house are so extraordinary that I have to rush and find Tom, make him stop whatever he’s doing, and just come outside.
Yesterday was such a morning.
A cold mist hung over the loch through which the sun broke, peach and rose and gold . . .
Our neighbour, the cormorant, who often sits by Carbeth Loch, surveyed the scene. . .
The mist rose through the woods, against the sun, tingeing the treetops . . .
Ben Lomond appeared on the horizon like a great russet beacon . . .
And, as the mist cleared, a skein of honking geese flashed across the cloudless sky, their wings catching the sun.
Will I ever stop finding myself bewildered that I actually love Autumn, and that this is the place I get to call home?
I very much doubt it.
All of these photographs were taken by Tom yesterday morning. He’s popped up some more on his site if you’d like a closer look.