The Quiet Magic of Autumn
- Julie Morgan
- Oct 16
- 3 min read
Autumn doesn’t tiptoe in. She arrives like a queen — sweeping across the land with her gold and burnished cloak, scattering leaves like jewels at her feet. There’s majesty in her stride, but also mercy: a softening of light, a slowing of time, a gentle invitation to pause.
There’s a hush that settles over the land as Autumn arrives — not silence, but a softer kind of sound. The rustle of leaves underfoot, the distant honk of migrating geese, the whisper of mist curling through the valley. It’s a season that invites us to slow down, to notice, to feel.
I’ve always loved this time of year. Not just for the colours — though they are breathtaking — but for the way everything seems to lean gently into change. Trees let go. Light softens. Even the air feels different: earthy, spiced, tinged with woodsmoke.
Nature's Autumnal Tapestry
I am in my element when wandering through our woodland paths and I find myself drawn to the quiet drama of decay. Fungi erupt from mossy logs in strange and wonderful forms — delicate parasols, shaggy inkcaps, clusters of coral. Each one a tiny marvel, thriving in the damp and the dim.
Birdsong shifts too. Swallows and house martins gather on wires, preparing for their long journey south. In their place come the winter visitors — redwings, fieldfares, and the occasional waxwing if we’re lucky. Also, the skies fill with with the heralds of Autumn — wild geese, honking and wheeling in shifting skeins. They arrive from the far north, drawn to our gentler winters and open fields. There’s something ancient in their rhythm, something stirring in their calls — a chorus that echoes across misty valleys and stubble fields. I watch them settle in a nearby field, their silhouettes stark against the fading light, and I feel the season deepen. They are not leaving, but arriving — part of Autumn’s procession, majestic and untamed. There’s movement everywhere, even in stillness.
Squirrels dart through leaf litter, caching acorns with frantic purpose dashing across the top of our fence. Deer begin their rut, antlers clashing in misty dawns (a picture I dream of taking). Hedgehogs fatten up for sleep. The natural world is busy, but never hurried.
Harvest, Hearth and Home
Autumn brings its own rituals. Foraging for blackberries in tangled hedgerows. Something you'll find me doing every year to make oodles of luscious blackberry jam. Children come to gather conkers, even if just for the joy of their glossy perfection.
Roasting root vegetables, simmering soups, baking apples with cinnamon — the kitchen becomes a place of comfort and warmth. There’s something deeply human about this season. We wrap ourselves in wool and fleece, light candles against the early dusk, and find joy in small things: a steaming mug, a good book, a walk through golden light but best of all, we get to put our jibs (pyjamas) on early!
Reflection and Renewal
More than anything, Autumn reminds me to let go. To honour what’s passed and make space for what’s coming. It’s a season of endings, yes — but also of preparation. Of gathering strength. Of finding beauty in the bare and the broken.
As a photographer, I find myself drawn to these quiet moments: a single leaf caught in a spider’s web, the curve of a mushroom in shadow, the way mist blurs the edges of the familiar. These images feel like offerings — gentle reminders that change can be graceful.
I love walking through autumn’s hush, with each step softened by a quilt of amber and gold, there’s a quiet invitation to pause. The crisp air carries a clarity that clears the mind, while the trees—shedding what no longer serves—whisper lessons in letting go. In this season of gentle decay, there’s space to reflect on what’s been, to tend to the bruises we’ve carried, and to gather strength for what’s ahead. Renewal doesn’t always shout; sometimes it rustles softly underfoot, reminding us that healing can be as simple as a slow walk beneath a canopy of change.
I do hope you've joyed my autumn journey. Thank you for joining me.
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