Why the changing season changes what we want to wear

There is usually a moment when you realise that autumn has arrived.

For me, it is often the swallows.

All summer they are part of the garden, diving through the air and sweeping into the barn with such speed and familiarity that we barely notice them. Then one day, towards the end of September, they are simply no longer there. They have begun their extraordinary journey towards warmer climates and the garden feels strangely quiet without them.

 Other changes follow.

The mornings are darker. The light falls lower across the fells and there is a sharp freshness to the air that makes you want to take a deep breath. After the warmth of summer, it feels wonderfully clean.

This is not yet autumn in all its glory. The trees are only beginning to turn, a branch of yellow or bronze appearing amongst the green. Bracken on the hillsides is becoming golden, while the return of rain makes the mosses covering our old dry-stone walls almost impossibly green, like little velvet coats.

And gradually, almost without thinking about it, the fragrances around us begin to change too.

The scent of the garden turning

There is work to be done in the garden at this time of year, although I try not to make it too tidy. Seed heads are left standing for the birds and spent plants are allowed to fall back into the borders, protecting the soil and returning something of themselves to it.

But there is always clearing to do.

Old mint and marjoram release a final burst of fragrance as they are gathered in handfuls. Spent tomato plants are pulled from the greenhouse, their leaves still carrying that unmistakably sharp, green scent. Everything is piled onto the compost where, eventually, it will become part of next year's garden.

Our old apple tree is laden, its branches arching under the weight of fruit waiting to be picked and preserved. Damsons fall into the flower beds, leaving dark skins amongst the plants. Along the edges of neighbouring fields, blackberries hang heavily from tumbling hedges, glossy and almost black, staining our hands as quickly as we can pick them.

On walks along the lanes, the hedgerows are changing too. Purple sloes appear amongst the leaves, hawthorn carries clusters of brilliant red haws and the wild roses of summer have become orange and scarlet hips.

Autumn has its own palette, but it also has its own fragrance.

Why do we want different scents in autumn?

As the temperature falls, artisan fragrance behaves differently on our skin. Warmth encourages perfume to evaporate and project more readily, which is one reason bright citrus, green and airy fragrances can feel so alive in summer. In cooler weather, scent tends to sit closer to us.

Perhaps our tastes change too.

The fresh perfume we sought in July begins to give way to woods, earth, spice, amber, leather and resins. Cedarwood can suggest dry timber. Vetiver has something of roots and earth. Oakmoss brings the damp greenness of a woodland floor, while patchouli has a deep, earthy warmth. Cardamom, clove, amber and vanilla can bring softness and comfort.

They are perfume ingredients, but their language feels strangely familiar because versions of those scents are beginning to appear all around us. Wet earth. Fallen leaves. Damp bark. Fruit. Moss. Wood smoke.

An invisible layer

At home, the first wood fires are lit again and smoke trails from the chimney into the cool air. Logs are gathered and brought closer to the house. The stream at the bottom of the garden, so quiet through the dry summer, begins to pick up pace until once again we can hear the sound of running water across the garden.

Our routines change with it.

Coats come out. Scarves are wrapped around our necks and hats pulled down against the morning chill. Marmalade, our old ginger cat, takes only the briefest excursions outdoors before retreating to his basket or his favourite corner beneath the bedside table.

And fragrance moves closer too.

There is something particularly lovely about perfume caught in a wool scarf. Hours after you first applied it, you pull the fabric around your neck and rediscover the fragrance, softer now and mingled with the familiar scent of wool and outdoors.

In summer, fragrance can seem to live in the air around us.

In autumn, it becomes an invisible layer we carry with us.

Must we change our perfume with the season?

Not at all.

There are no rules about what we should wear in September or October, just as there are no rules about which fragrance should belong to whom.

Instead, autumn can be an opportunity to notice familiar fragrances differently.

A perfume you think of as fresh may contain cedarwood or leather that becomes more apparent in cooler weather. A floral may have sandalwood, amber or spice beneath its flowers. Even something bright and citrus-led can reveal an unexpectedly warm character once the initial freshness has faded.

Rather than beginning with a fragrance name, try following an ingredient.

Smell cedarwood. Then patchouli. Cardamom. Amber. Oakmoss. Notice which ones draw you back. You may discover that the artisan fragrances you have loved over the years share something you had never consciously recognised.

The beginning of autumn

By late September, the Lake District can be wonderfully moody. Mist sits low over the fells, drizzle softens the landscape and darkness arrives a little earlier each evening.

But then the clouds part and that extraordinary low autumn sunlight appears, illuminating the first turning leaves and making the whole landscape briefly glow.

There is much still to come.

The great autumn display of the trees has barely begun. There are apples to gather, blackberries to pick and, this year, an ambitious attempt to turn our greenhouse glut of tomatoes into chutneys and preserves.

For now, autumn is simply making itself known.

A swallow no longer sweeping through the barn. The smell of mint on your hands. Damp earth beneath your feet. Wood smoke somewhere in the distance. A favourite perfume lingering in the folds of a scarf.

Perhaps choosing an autumn fragrance is not really about changing what we wear at all.

It is simply another way of noticing that the air has changed.