It’s autumn again and to be precise it’s the 35th autumn in my life.
As far as I remember back from my childhood in Bulgaria, I never really liked autumn, because it marked the end of beautiful, hot and carefree summers. It meant that I can no longer take my bag and skip to the beach, spending all day in the sea without the watchful eye of my parents and until my lips became blue and I had drunk more or less half of the Black Sea. I missed the long nights strolling the main streets all the way to the Sea Garden with its beautiful terrace with Viennese bannisters and the most amazing view over Bourgas harbour all the way to Sunny Beach. Summer was the one season we all lived for and partying all the way to October the thought of autumn and winter was so distant as the Antarctic is from Bulgaria.
Until one morning you wake up and feel the cool breeze in you bedroom, sneaking messenger for the winter, and realise that the leaves are fallen and gone way, the crops are reaped and harvest collected and you reach to you wardrobe for the winter coat and it’s smell of anti-moth balls.
That’s way I never liked autumn back then. It was short, unexpected and brutal. I was not prepared for it and it always brought a sense of loss.
I found myself looking forward to that magical moment of when the leaves start to transform, the feerie of colours, the sensitivity to light and the dark shades of imminent demise were striking. The passionate reds, the royal purples, the distinguished browns make an amazing autumn in England on the backdrop of green fields and well…quite unpredictable skies. The quite and beautiful transition would wave its way from the bottom of the trees, across land, homes and spaces until one day a fierce storm will shake and disturb the idyllic piece, will rage and reign until the last leave has fallen and kidnapped in the hands of its almighty power.
And this is when it starts to smell like Christmas.