Her pleasure in the walk must arise from the exercise and the day, from the view of the last smiles of the year upon the tawny leaves and withered hedges, and from repeating to herself some few of the thousand poetical descriptions extant of autumn–that season of peculiar and inexhaustible influence on the mind of taste and tenderness–that season which has drawn from every poet worthy of being read some attempt at description, or some lines of feeling.
–Jane Austen, Persuasion
On my (increasingly rare) free weekend days, I love to venture out into the drizzling and strikingly chilly grey London afternoons. A park will do, but last weekend I traipsed around Surrey and ended the afternoon at a country pub.
English autumns and American autumns consist of a variety of trade-offs. In England, it becomes much colder much quicker, so jumper (sweater) weather is completely legitimate in September. I’ve spent too many Virginia Septembers sweltering because I couldn’t bear to leave my knitwear in the drawer for any longer, so I appreciate this despite the knowledge that I won’t feel my toes again until about late May.
However, Virginia autumns get the crunchy leaves and the increasingly cold sunshine that denotes football games (NFL, thank you), warm cider, and a jack o’lantern’s toothy grin. But I’ll trade this for the verdant moss green that juxtaposes the beautiful orange and red leaves as it climbs up the southern side of tree trunks. Only the rain creates this, and the pensive atmosphere generated by the overcast skies.
Plus I can get NFL on SkySports.