I always feel like the new year starts in September instead of January.
Everywhere you may turn your eyes to, you can spot thistles (fluffy and white, thorny and purple, or blue and round), pink and rusty red tall spikes and sculptoreal dried herbs, fluttering in the breeze.
The bushes and shrubs and trees are filled with lots of shiny and dusty berries and fruits, of the most wonderful colors- from green, to orange, to blue, to black.
The migratory birds start gathering in V formations... and it's not rare that while walking among the fileds you meet adorable baby pheasants funnily running away followed by an attentive mother.
Strolling around the villages, you start seeing baskets or little tables lovingly arranged by the doors, full of cheery sachets and jars filled with the bounty of Summer.
There are just a few tourists left around- the quiet has definitely returned among the old, quaint cottages, public footpaths and narrow country roads.