The “Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness” is here – and as Keats so elegantly continued in his poem – “Close bosom friend of the maturing sun”. That means damp dewy mornings, chilly evenings, time to put on an extra layer or cover bare feet with socks, and time to carry an umbrella just in case when you go out (that definitely applies in the UK).

Having recently returned from France, where the weather in September has been variable to say the least and untypical for the time of year, I noticed this pleasing clump of fungi had appeared one morning.

I was staying in the Dordogne region and had been greeted each day by the autumn mists which lingered for a while over the nearby river and surrounding wooded hillsides, only to disappear by mid-morning as the sun burned through and provided some gloriously mellow warmth.

Keats nailed it perfectly, the final lines of his poem To Autumn summing up the very things I noticed while still on holiday in France: the sound of a robin’s song, and young swallows on a wire, preparing to migrate.

The red-breast whistles from a garden croft;

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.