The beginning of autumn ...

There's something magical about the last summer days of the year. As August drifts by, the days become increasingly more precious; each sunny day a little weaker than its predecessor, the minutes of sunlight slowly shrinking in. There's a certain impulsiveness hanging in the air, an uncertain wondering as to which summer's day will be the last.

In Denmark we have a word for these days of expectations and uncertainty; we call it sensommer.

This year, the last day of summer turned out to be the last day of August. It was a beautiful day and I spent it walking barelegged through the forest, no winds nor cloud in sight. The sun was unbearably hot and there was no hint or warning that it would be the last summer day of the year. There never is.

The moment, the calendar changed to September, the winds changed. The endlessly blue sky that had ruled only the day before shifted into a never-ending shade of grey, stretching as far as the weather forecasts could predict. I went for a walk and needed a scarf, I saw chestnuts falling from trees and felt a certain crispness in the air. And I knew we were in the early autumn where the sun and the grey skies would occasionally battle; only for the sun to withdraw and hide. Until next year ... 

Now we're in the middle of September, and the days are slowly getting shorter. I light scented candles and drink tea, wear chunky scarfs and knitted jumpers. I suddenly have an urge to grab every unread book on my bookshelf and read for days. I want board the Hogwarts Express or disappear into Gothic tales of ghosts and haunted mansions. I want to dream of enchanted castles and forgotten times. I want to open books and live inside of them. I want to go exploring and get lost.

At this time of the year, the apples taste better, the air is crispier and my home seems cosier. And as the leaves slowly turns deep red, golden and brown, and the days becomes shorter and less bright, I fall in love with this season all over again.