We rarely choose the scents that shape us. They arrive quietly, carried on the season itself, sometimes through an open window, sometimes in a bowl of fruit, sometimes in the air as we step into the garden. For me, honeysuckle will always belong to summer. But autumn is different. October has its own voice, its own perfume. It is a month made of orchard air and damp leaves, of fires being lit for the first time, of cedar logs and ripe fruit gathered in baskets. If summer was the season of sweetness, October has always been the season of depth.

The Lyth Valley is at its most beautiful in autumn. Mist lingers between the folds of the fells, and the orchards grow heavy with fruit. Damsons, small, dark plums with a bloom like indigo velvet, hang low on the branches. Their sharpness catches on the air, softened when brought indoors and simmered into jam, or steeped in sugar and gin, becoming the scent of warmth itself. Pears, too, ripen golden in the chill, their fragrance delicate and luminous. If you gather them in the early morning, their skins are damp with dew, and they carry with them the freshness of rain-soaked earth. Together, damsons and pears hold the valley in balance: one tart and brooding, the other light and golden, their perfumes drifting into kitchens, into baskets left by doorways, into memory.

And then there is the cedar, the quiet constant of the season. Logs stacked against walls, their dry, resinous scent waiting to catch in the hearth fire. White cedar has a way of grounding the fruitfulness of October. It gives shape to the sweetness, lends a dry backbone to the lushness of pears and plums. It is the note that says autumn is here, that the season is turning.

It is from these landscapes that White Cedar & Pear was born. A chypre fragrance, it captures the orchards of Cumbria in their mist-hung stillness: the crisp, golden sweetness of pear and plum, softened by mandarin’s brightness; the powdery heart of lily and ylang-ylang adding depth; the dry cedar and clove at the base, giving the perfume a spiced warmth, like the last glow of sun on the skin before frost arrives. Damsons belong here too, unspoken but present, a quiet echo of the valley’s richness. It is, to me, the scent of October distilled - fruit and wood, warmth and crispness, memory and presence.

But not every fragrance is anchored in orchards. Some live in water, in wood, in houses where candlelight lingers longer than the day. Autumn calls them forward in new ways, drawing out their quieter layers.

Take Skimming Stones, for instance. It was created with still water in mind - the ritual of tossing smooth stones across a lake and watching ripples spread in widening circles. In summer, it is a fragrance of light and play, rosemary and bergamot bright against the shimmer of water iris and wild rose. But in October, the scent shifts. The lakes are steel-grey, the air carries the mineral clarity of wet stone, and moss thickens on the banks. The base of sandalwood and patchouli feels deeper now, earthy and grounding. It becomes a fragrance of reflection - the kind you find when standing on the edge of a still lake, wrapped in a scarf, breath clouding in the air.

Or Hide and Seek, born not from orchards or lakesides but from stories. It speaks of old houses with oak floorboards and faded tapestries, of candlelit gatherings and whispers behind doors. In summer, it can feel romantic, playful. In autumn, its richness grows. Plum and tuberose deepen into something velvety, jasmine fragrance and ylang-ylang feel almost candle-warmed, and the base of amber, vanilla, and musk settles like the hush of firelight on wood. It is a fragrance of interiors - of evenings when the world outside is damp and shadowed, but inside there is warmth, richness, and the lingering perfume of something unforgettable.

And then there is Climbing Trees. A green fragrance. It is, at its heart, a fragrance of childhood - of rough bark under palms, of green leaves and lemon, of jasmine fragrance drifting like sky through branches. But autumn changes even this memory. The trees are turning, their leaves golden and falling, their scent deeper, earthier. Cedarwood and vetiver rise more strongly here, anchoring the fragrance in the hush of an ancient rhythm. It becomes not just a perfume of freedom and play, but of belonging to the turning world - of being part of something larger, older, rooted.

Perfume, at its best, doesn’t just sit on the skin. It becomes part of us - a way to mark a season, to hold onto warmth, to step more fully into ourselves. A favourite scent can comfort, embolden, or inspire. It can lift us when the days grow shorter, remind us of joy when the evenings stretch long. Some perfumes are chosen for romance. Others for clarity. Some we wear for no one but ourselves.

And perhaps that is the quiet magic of scent in autumn. It is the most nostalgic of senses. It doesn’t shout. It lingers. It reminds. It returns.