Autumn in Tanglewood had always been Fitzgibbon’s favourite time of the year.  In winter the trees stood naked and gnarled under bleak, heavy clouds or steel grey sky, while damp, icy fog hugged the ground between them.  The fog was just high enough to obscure the undergrowth, which meant that walking became an even more difficult task than usual and also meant, if you were four feet high like Fitzgibbon, that within three minutes you were soaked to the waist. Because of the pervasive damp his banjo was impossible to keep tuned, and his sister Elva was always crabby when she couldn’t see the sun, so winter passed slowly and dismally.

Spring was certainly beautiful.  It started with a light frosting of green shoots on the grey claws of the trees and ended with a riot of flowers and foliage and fungi.  Unfortunately, during spring the weather could never seem to make up its mind what it wanted to be.  Sometimes it was too lazy to move out of winter and the days would be bitingly cold and the new growths of lichen would be so heavy with frost that they fell off the trees.  Other times the forest made adventurously premature assays into summer, and the whole thing steamed.  Fitzgibbon was always spent these days in the cool, mossy shadows between the roots of the giant chestnut tree at the heart of the forest, sweaty fingers slipping and sliding over the strings of his banjo.

Somehow, summer itself was seldom as hot as spring.  This was when the forest really extended itself, blooming so full of life that there was scarcely room for it all.  While this was certainly very lovely, there were, to Fitzgibbon’s mind, three important downsides to it.  Firstly, a leisurely walk became almost impossible, since he was constantly tripped up by bracken and flowers and wild strawberries.  Secondly, the riot of life overhead made his favourite nook at the foot of the chestnut tree very dark, and shifting patterns of light through leaves, though very pretty, are hard to read by.  Thirdly, Elva became unbearably cheerful, and went flitting about the forest in gauzy gowns with ribbons in her hair, singing and batting her eyelashes at travellers.

Which brings us back to autumn.  In autumn the air was clear and brisk, with a sharp hint of snow on every southerly breeze, and from Fitzgibbon's house on the edge of the cliff you could see for miles.  The entire forest turned fiery red and orange and gold, and there were always fruits and nuts and berries to be found half hidden in the flames, or lying on the thick carpet of leaves underfoot.  The drifts were joy to walk through, or wade through in Fitzgibbon's case, and he did so as often as possible, playing his banjo and kicking fountains of red and gold high into the air.  His nook under the chestnut tree was padded with leaves and dry lichen, with chestnuts always within reach and just enough light filtering through the thinning canopy.  And when he got home at sunset the tawny crimson rain of leaves was streaming over the edge of the cliff and out into the clear, crisp air, mixing with fine spray from the tiny streams that followed them and dancing off to the fiery horizon.