Even my man Keats agrees, with his season of mists...and other likewise damp phenomena, when the air smells alternately of cut grass, bonfires and tea-leaves; daylight diminishes and the skies belong to the crow, every caw a carrion delight. In nuanced, bittersweet October, England becomes a haunting Celtic netherworld.
I adore it.
And even if you ignore the fact that I watched Excalibur far too many times in my teens, this remains my favoured time of year - if only for the sheer joy of popping out for a smoke and inhaling not only tobacco but all the various free flavours of the month, the over-ripe apples, gently rotting leaves and still plump blackberries.
Take my advice: if you don’t smoke, take it up tomorrow.