The air is chilly. My hands always feel it the worst, but gloves are always the last thing out of the hamper of winter clothes. I resist the first day, as if there wasn’t only one way this is going, and then I embrace that the cold has set in. 

I harvest golden bracken in a scarf wrapped three times around my neck. I sleep in thick, knitted socks. There is a blanket over the back of the sofa and I spend as much time as possible perching on the everhot. I haven’t been outdoors without my long tweed coat for a week. 

The air might be cold but the colours in the field and the surrounding landscape are warm. Golds, rusts, sharp acid yellows. Oranges, mossy greens and the deepest of deep, rich reds. 

This morning, I brought the last of the dahlias indoors. It is the end. 

I am planning where I am going to fit all the tulips bulbs. It is the beginning.