What is your favorite season of year? Why?
Choosing a favourite season has become increasingly difficult. The British climate is far less predictable than it once was. The winters of my childhood often brought snow, frost and a sense that winter was genuinely winter. Now they are more likely to be wet, grey and windy, or merely cold enough to be unpleasant without delivering any of winter’s compensations. Some years it feels as though the season scarcely arrives at all.
Summer has become equally problematic. While I enjoy sunshine as much as anyone, recent summers have produced temperatures more reminiscent of Morocco than Sussex. Days of relentless heat leave me longing for shade, water and cooler air. There comes a point when summer ceases to be enjoyable and simply becomes something to endure.
That leaves spring and autumn.
Spring can be extraordinary. After months of bare branches and muted colours, the countryside erupts into life. Hedgerows glow with fresh greens, woodland floors fill with bluebells, and there are days when the landscape feels almost tropical in its abundance. As someone who spends a great deal of time among trees, I find those weeks of rapid growth endlessly fascinating.
Autumn offers a different kind of spectacle. After a long summer, the landscape slows and softens. The colours can be breathtaking: golds, coppers, russets and deep reds transforming woods and parks into a living painting. The low sunlight, morning mists and rich textures make it one of the most visually rewarding times of year.
If forced to choose, I would probably settle on autumn by the narrowest of margins. Yet the truth is that Britain’s best season is often not a season at all, but a single perfect day: warm enough to be comfortable, cool enough to be refreshing, and spent outdoors beneath trees, watching the landscape do what it has always done despite our attempts to categorise it.
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