There comes a point near the end of summer when something begins to shift. The calendar may insist that the season is not quite finished, the afternoons may still be warm, and most of the trees may still be green, but somehow your thoughts have already wandered ahead. You begin thinking about cooler mornings and earlier evenings. You notice the first hint of gold in the trees. A cardigan suddenly seems appealing again. You find yourself longing for rain tapping against the windows, something warm to drink, and the particular comfort that arrives when the days begin drawing in. By early September, I am usually ready for autumn. And when I picture autumn, it is difficult not to picture Britain. There is something about the season that seems particularly at home there. Perhaps it is the landscape or the architecture. Perhaps it is the history, the traditions, the weather, or simply the way all of those things come together. Britain does autumn remarkably well. A Season That Suits th...