The Snuggery

As autumn settles over the world like a pale orange, burnt sienna and cream cashmere blanket, there's a particular kind of magic in the afternoon light—that golden hour seems to linger just a bit longer, as if the season itself is savoring each moment before winter arrives. It is this time of year that I want to live outside, relish the cooler weather and turning leaves, mosey down dirt paths with friends to discover birds, flowers, mushrooms, and furry critters, and when the light finally fades, returning home to a humble soup made with butternut squash and transition to the quiet time of the day in one of my little rooms at Windy Acre Cottage.

Nostalgic. Romantic. Charming. Comforting. Maybe a bit whimsical. Reminiscent of the furry little creatures’ dens in old children’s books, replete with electric fire, comfy armchairs, grandma’s rocker, and warm, woolen throws. I’m referring to my snuggery, what Mr. Webster describes as a cozy, personal room or den.

What better time than autumn to create your own gentle, nurturing pocket of peace? This is the season when the world naturally draws inward—when light becomes honeyed and precious, slanting through windows turning ordinary rooms into amber-lit sanctuaries. It's a time when we're called to slow down, to wrap ourselves in softness, to light candles against the early darkness, and to find gratitude in the quiet corners of our days.

My little snuggery was born from both necessity and serendipity when I discovered the home of my dreams, a century-old cottage near my brothers' homes in Columbia—a place that had already witnessed a hundred autumns, sheltered a hundred winters. The front parlor, quite narrow and peculiar with its wavy glass windows and imperfections, seemed to whisper its purpose to me: not a bowling alley as it first appears, but something far more precious— like an old tree’s hollow trunk that is a sanctuary to tiny bear cubs or newborn fawns, a nook, a haven, a snuggery.

I chose to fill my snuggery with warmth, charm, and love. I’m comforted by a handmade autumn leaf swag decorating the mantle made by Sonja and adorned with fairy lights sent by lifelong friend Lee, and old family photos of love ones still with me and others who have passed, also second-hand autumn-inspired nature books, hand-tied fly-fishing flies, an iron miniature moose, candles, collectibles from many travels, original paintings, and furniture passed down from 150 years of family generations. 

As daylight fades and the world outside grows quiet, I settle into my ritual. Hot tea steams from a beloved English brown transferware teacup—a gift from a friend and its matching saucer currently misplaced, perfect in its imperfection. A woodsy candle flickers, releasing notes of mahogany, tobacco and memory. I choose my companions for the evening: perhaps a worn book whose pages fall open to favorite passages, or my journal waiting for the day's reflections to be captured with fountain pen and Diamine ink.

The music is always soft, always classical—Satie's Gymnopédie No.1 with its wistful simplicity, Chopin's Nocturnes washing over the room like moonlight, or Debussy's "Clair de Lune" turning the ordinary into something luminous. Some evenings call for different comfort: a Jane Austen adaptation where every frame looks like an oil painting, an episode of "Monarch of the Glen" with its handsome Scottish lairds, locks, kilts and castles, or YouTube channels that offer windows into other cozy lives—"Trout & Coffee," "Chateau Diaries," and kindred spirits who understand this particular breed of contentment. Comforting still are the soft, snoring sounds from my father’s little dog Bella who is now in my care.

In this small space, time moves differently. The modern world with its urgency, attitudes and questionable values feels very far away, held at bay by soft lamplight and the weight of an old pup in my lap. Here, in my snuggery, I remember what it feels like to be truly sheltered—not just from autumn's chill, but from all the harsh edges of life. Like those furry creatures in their storybook dens or baby critters cuddled in their hollow tree, I've found my burrow, my nest, my place of perfect safety.

Perhaps this is autumn's greatest gift: permission to retreat, to rest, to be small and warm and content. To create a place where you are always welcomed, always safe, always home. As the season deepens and the nights grow longer, I invite you to find—or create—your own snuggery. Fill it with what makes your heart feel full. Light your candles. Pour your tea. Let the world grow quiet around you.

Magic resides in these simple sanctuaries, these pockets of peace we carve from our days. And in them, we remember we are not just enduring the season's darkness, but celebrating the warm, golden light we carry within and openly share with others.

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