"It's a misty, moisty morning," my mother would always say on days like this. Autumn is the season of mists – although I came across a book a couple of years ago that claimed it was no more common in autumn than any other season, and that Keats's mists were, in fact, metaphorical. Nonsense.
The colours seem especially beautiful this year, I'm not sure why.
Perhaps it's because the leaves have stayed on the trees long enough to
turn, rather than being stripped too soon by high winds, or drought.
Green Park yesterday the sturdy London planes could hardly have looked more
English; at Morden Hall today, though, the same trees had been rendered mysterious, like
delicate Chinoiserie, by the mist.