We have some beautiful woods and forests here, so autumn is always a special time. Find out how far along the autumn colours in the Lake District National Park.
Check out the Leaf Look photo album of the gardens of Brockhole - The Lake District Visitor Centre (opens in new window)
These are particularly good for seeing the tree colours change. All links open in a new window.
Buttermere, courtesy of Croft House Farm Cafe
Derwentwater looking south from Keswick, courtesy of Highfield Hotel
Grasmere looking west, courtesy of Pogu Pete's Lake District Webcam.
Windermere, courtesy of Holbeck Ghyll
The links to websites are offered in good faith. The Lake District National Park Authority has no control over the content of the sites and no endorsement of any of the products or services contained on the sites is implied.
The gardens at the Brockhole - The Lake District Visitor Centre (opens in new window) overlooking Windermere are stunning at this time of year. Take a stroll, let the kids run off steam in the adventure playground and then take a bite to eat at the cafe.
This season's crisp days are also a perfect time to hire a boat from Coniston Boating Centre (opens in new window) where the reflections give you double the autumn effect.
If you're after pushchair or wheelchair-friendly walks, take your pick from our many Miles without Stiles routes.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease;
For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river-sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.