"Season of mist and mellow fruitfulness..."

Autumn arrives, glowing and golden. A warm pink sunrise bobbing in the horizon like a paper lantern, lifting honey coloured rays over a landscape of ochre and umber.

Now comes Keats, ‘season of mist and mellow fruitfulness’ 

In the fields, the last of the harvest falls to the quick whir of combine harvesters. Bounded by hedge and copse some of these fields bore witness to the homesick tramp of booted Norman feet, they remember the ancient swish of scythes and the earthy magic of corn dollies and bonfires.
      Or was that just a dream? A picturesque dream of linen smocks exhaling the scents of cider and perspiration; of creaking chestnut leather bridles as the lord of the manor rode past and real chestnuts clicking, smashing, shattering in school yards.
      Who can say which is dream, which is fiction?
      Dreaming or waking, the soul yearns for certain things from Autumn. These new palettes of the earth: crisp, golden leaves falling in the parks, new school shoes the colour of chestnuts, the russet fashions of the season as they fill the shop windows call out for richer perfumes, earthy scents.
      Carry the season with you; sparks from the fire, humus from the Forest floor, spiced pies and pastries. Dab these scents on your wrist, your throat; seduce, envelop, surround yourself with fragrances. If you wish, you may even give reign to flights of fancy and envision yourself as an ancient pagan goddess of the harvest, ripe fruit tumbling from your skirts, crowned by maple leaves; as voluptuous as a painting by Mucha.
     Very well then, shall we imagine an olfactory stroll through a perfect Autumn day?

The earth.

Shihan (formerly Sensei under which name you will find it on Fragrantica).  Piotr Czarnecki

A rich mist of whiskey and tobacco envelopes you with the first spritz of this perfume, like a the billowing chill folds of an early Autumn fog. Notes plucked from the earthiest of pallets which beckon you back to the warmth of the fire and the promise of coffee and spirits. Ah but the cold is bracing and the woods are full of promise so you pull on your boots and stride out, your air billowing around you like dragons breath. You can smell the richness of damp earth, the living heart of the Autumn evoked in base notes of amber and musk. Somewhere, far off, a bonfire burns, billowing smoke as sharp as the pencils you once sharpened and lined up neatly in readiness for the autumn term 

The woods. 

Feminite du Bois. Serge Lutens.

Nostalgic woods abound here, sharpened by a hint of pepper. A glitter of warm embers from the bonfire dances in the air, carried by notes of cinnamon and clove. You breath the heart of this perfume as you step into the beating heart of the wood, as gilded sunlight mottles the path ahead of you and warms your face. Shadows move and scamper with life, hibernation beckons and the stores must be filled. Flashes of glowing fox fur as bright as the ginger and violet notes you smell rising from this perfume. The woods are alive with the spirit of the forest and so too is your perfume. A barefoot wood sprite blazing through the mist, rustling in a gown of fallen leaves.
A radiant burst of fruits emerges as this scent matures, a suggestion of heavily laden trees overhanging the path. Ripe plums and peaches, slightly biting berries. You emerge from the forest at last laden down with wild fruits overflowing your basket like an ancient cornucopia. A few late rose petals blown in by the bracing winds nestle among the dark ripe berries. Gorgeous and rich, all so bright that the sight, and the scent, takes your breath away.

From the woods, home to the warmth of the fire.

Monsieur. Huiteme Art. 

Deep, musky notes of cedarwood, sandalwood and patchouli slowly give way to the roaring crackle of a fire, flashing bright sparks of incense woods. The promise of warmth, of home and hearth dwells in this perfume, beginning with a roar and a blaze and, slowly maturing to a lighter spicy scent during dry down. It's a long lasting perfume (still noticeable on my skin after six hours) which progresses through many delicious stages as you wear it, with the brighter notes of papyrus and vetiver becoming stronger and then fading down to a final burst of incense from the base notes.
     With this perfume, you close the door behind you, unwind your scarf and breath deeply of the air of home, smiling at the spiced scent that wafts from the kitchen as you begin to kindle the fire; is that spiced tea you smell? 

The fire in the hearth.  

Ottoman Amber. Merchant of Venice.

Oud dominates this composition, building a deep warmth, You sit before the fire now, teacup in hand, stretched out to the flicker of red and gold dancing before you. You tear open the plums that you picked, warmed by the fire their scent has become even richer and sweeter. 

A note of myrrh emerges and you think of the winter yet to come but, for now, you are content, you are wrapped in a blanket of sandalwood and patchouli deep enough to last throughout this perfect autumn evening. 

A very happy (or should that be grim?) birthday to the Gothic novel...

Three Hundred years ago today, on the 24th of September 1717, Horace Walpole, author of The Castle of Otranto, was born.

     One would like to imagine that his birth occurred on as dark and stormy a night as any envisioned by Edward Bulwer-Lytton but, alas, I have no knowledge of what the meteorological conditions were on that auspicious day. What I can say for certain is that young Horace, son of Britain's first Prime Minister, Whig MP and designer of Britain's frothiest Gothic revival house Strawberry Hill was also the man who put pen to paper and concocted the very first Gothic novel.
     So, one might say that today also marks the 300 birthday of the Gothic novel. After all, from that first slim volume and the sensation it caused sprang an unstoppable genre littered with classics; Dracula, Frankenstein, The Monk to name but a few. Without The Castle of Otranto we wouldn't have Gothic fiction; and, without Gothic fiction, we wouldn't have Jane Austen's satire Northanger Abbey or the dreadfully delicious TV series Penny Dreadful. Without Gothic fiction we wouldn't have Hammer Horror films and the pleasant thrilling chill of Bela Lugosi donning fangs and cape to call out to the children of the night. In short, without Gothic fiction we would be missing some wonderful cultural and pop cultural highlights. For bestowing upon us the first work of a new genre we should definitely raise a glass to Mr Walpole.
      Of course, The Castle of Otranto should not be known by it's legacy alone. Without giving away too many spoilers, I'm going to say that this is definitely a book everyone should read at least once (especially if you love all things Gothic). The first and, in many ways, possibly the weirdest, The Castle of Otranto is a wild, windswept romp through Shakespearean prose and uncontrollable passion. Giant helmets plummet from the sky, divorces are sought (in ways reminiscent of Henry VIII legendary divorce from Catherine of Aragon), children are reunited with parents they didn't even know they had, fair maidens and gallant young knights fall in love, spectral hands appear and there's even a "knight of the gigantic sabre". A thousand plot twists and complications mount and mount and finally come to a surprisingly neat conclusion. However, this is one book where it's not the destination but the journey which is most thrilling.
      So, pick up a copy of The Castle of Otranto, pour yourself a glass of something suitably decadent and settle down, autumn is already upon us and there could be many a dark and stormy night to wile away in good literary company.