The Apple Season and Cider Cottage

The village stirred awake under a veil of golden mist, the kind that clung to the fields and drifted slowly toward the hills. In the orchards, apples blushed in the morning light - some pale as cream, others deep red like wine. Dew clung to the grass, and the trees stood heavy with their offerings, branches bending gently under the weight of a year’s patience. It was harvest time, the season the villagers waited for all year, when the air itself seemed scented with fruit, earth, and the faint curl of woodsmoke from hearths already preparing for colder nights.

George arrived early, basket in hand, his boots crunching over fallen leaves that gave off their own crisp fragrance when crushed. Around him, the orchard was alive with movement: children darted between the rows of trees, their laughter echoing as they chased one another with sticky fingers and pockets already bulging with stolen fruit; the elders worked methodically, bent but tireless, filling crates with apples bound for the presses and for the market stalls in town. The rhythm of the season was familiar, almost ritualistic. Everyone had their role, and everyone belonged.

The work was not hurried. Each apple was picked with care, twisted gently from the branch, inspected, then placed into a basket or crate. George felt the satisfaction of it - the small snap as the stem broke free, the smooth weight of fruit settling in his palm. The orchards stretched endlessly, rows upon rows bathed in light, as if the entire world had been painted in shades of russet, gold, and green.

By midday, the sun had burned through the haze, pouring warmth over the orchard like honey. Long wooden tables were carried out and set beneath the oldest trees, draped with linen cloths. They filled quickly with crusty loaves still warm from the oven, wheels of cheese wrapped in paper, roasted chestnuts, and bottles of golden cider that caught the sunlight like liquid fire. Families gathered, voices weaving together in a tapestry of conversation and laughter, while the younger ones sprawled in the grass, munching apples straight from the branch and wiping juice from their chins with the backs of their sleeves.

George lingered among them, tasting bread still warm from the hearth and sipping cider that sparkled on his tongue. For a moment, he let himself simply watch: his neighbors talking with their hands, the orchard shifting with shadows as the day stretched on, the breeze stirring petals and leaves into little spirals that danced across the tables. There was a fullness here - of baskets, of bellies, of hearts.

As the afternoon softened into amber light, the tables were cleared and the crates stacked high, ready to be taken into barns where apples would be pressed into cider or baked into tarts that would warm the long autumn evenings. George made his way back through the narrow lanes of the village, his basket heavy with fruit but his heart light.

Passing a small stone cottage, he slowed. Through the open window drifted a scent so familiar, it stopped him in his tracks: the warm aroma of apple cider mingled with cardamom, underpinned by a subtle hint of sandalwood, reminiscent of a cozy cottage. He glanced inside and saw it - a candle glowing on the sill, its flame steady against the twilight. Cider Cottage.

The fragrance wrapped around him, carrying him back to the orchard - the laughter of children, the quiet satisfaction of gathering what the earth had given, the simple joy of bread and cider shared beneath the trees. It smelled like autumn itself, distilled into warmth and memory, a season captured in firelight and fragrance.

As the church bell tolled in the distance, marking the close of the day, George continued on, the glow of the candle lingering in his mind. Harvest always came and went quickly, fleeting as the leaves that fell beneath his boots. Yet he realized that some seasons stayed with you, long after the last apple was picked - carried in scent, in memory, in the golden light of a single flame.