The first sign of Autumn is in the light. The way it somehow becomes whiter, clearer, as the days cool. The second, in the sweet smell of woodsmoke that hangs heavy on the air.
Today I walking down the farm track, enjoying the way the day fades on the field and admiring the first scattering of russet leaves, abandoned under the trees. The farmhouse on the corner is tumbledown: old, red brick and brown slate roof, with a trickle of smoke emanating from the chimney. It reminds why I love the smell of Autumn. Let me tell you the story…
When I was a child, we went to some kind of an outdoor event with Geoff. Was it a festival? I don’t remember. Memory is a funny thing. Real in the moment and then honeyed, becoming dreamlike, with time.
I do remember staring up at the bottlegreen canvas of our tent in the morning light, the way it gently billowed. I remember the smell of the hog roast and the pig turning on the spit under the stars. I remember men with long hair playing acoustic guitars.
I trace my intense longing for freedom back to that night, running wild with my sister and my friends, barefoot with tangled hair. Strains of music and the smell of dope drifting on the air, the smoke of the fire rising like magic from crackling, dancing, orange flames.
Today, the sweet, smoky wood fire scent takes me back to that night. To the day I learned to want freedom. To dream of magic.
