September. The start of Autumn. This morning whilst trudging through the seaweed, hoods up and boots sinking into the slippery bronze decay, the once swaying mysterious kelp forests, now humbled by gravity, our conversation turned to preparations for the winter ahead. The trepidation of the coming storms and cold winds warded off by thoughts of hearth and fire. The promise of golden leaves and the brambles, which if we find the time we will turn into jam -the children 'helping' gaining purple faces and hands. The golden colours of the sky as evenings draw in, peppered with murmurations, as starlings gather. The bitter sweet nostaglia as you look back over the summer, excited talks of Christmas, and of years to come. These thoughts warming, as we walk through the rain, holding hands. Pedestrian conversations that we have year in year out at this time. What the house needs to see it through another winter, school shoes that will withstand puddles. New equipment we would like for the workshop. Holding hands. Back to back, facing outwards to the world together. Autumn is a time of quiet romance. We head back from the beach, drying our selves and wet dogs, make a cup of smoky tea and sit next to each other at our desks. On to the task of helping other loved ones sercetively get ring sizes without alerting the other. Of choosing the colour of metal for the rings they will wear everyday for the rest of their lives. Last minute deadlines for spontaneous weddings. I think of the people we are making rings for, of all the autumns they will share. The pedestrian conversations they will have about shoes and leaky gutters, the walks in the rain. And shining glint of golds on their fingers, the quiet romance of seasons shared.