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The leaves on the oak tree in the park are three-quarters brown and bring to mind the two-tone hair of a model in the ‘before’ picture of a dye advert. The tiny leaves on the apple tree over the garden wall look as though they have been individually removed and stuck in an air fryer to crisp up nicely before being painstakingly reattached. The sky is leaden, the colour of Sunday afternoons on the box in the 1970s, when the grey screen swarmed with Messerschmitts, Heinkels and Spits… It can only mean one thing. Winter is coming. And just in the nick of time. Because winter is wonderful – easily

As a historian who studies and writes about Nazi Germany, I have occasionally met the descendants of the criminals who ruled the Third Reich. I’ve always wondered how they can possibly bear the burden of carrying the genes that wrought so much evil. The answer is curious and reminds me of the saying of German philosopher Immanuel Kant that nothing straight will ever be made from the crooked timber of humanity. The Daily Telegraph carried an interview this week with one such unwitting victim: a 49-year-old psychotherapist named Henrik Lenkeit, who lives in Spain and recently discovered by chance that he is the grandson of one of the most notorious

Grey rain slants down over the brown heather of the Lochaber hills, falling relentlessly into Loch Linnhe, and drenching the Caledonian Sleeper idling beneath my window on the platform at Fort William. November is technically still autumn, but already the long evenings of British Summer Time seem to belong to a different world. Pleasant as it is to wrap up in a coat, to feel invigorated by stepping out into a chill, or delighted by returning to the warmth within, the dying year is no cause for celebration. Christmas, the adopted pagan festival, is like Halloween – not put there because the days are joyous, but so we can thumb