Samhain. Halloween. The season of darkness. Grim clouds scutter like thin grey rags under a sombre sky. This is the time of the ancestors, the time of the ancients, when spirits roam the land. The time of the dark awakening.

Who can doubt now the changing of the seasons? Who can doubt the turning of the year?

We know this time and celebrate it. We have always known it, always celebrated it, since the beginning of time. We know it by the leaves turning crisp upon the bough; by the winds, by the rains. Winds that howl, rains that cry. We know it by the sun’s light becoming milky in the heavens, like an old man’s eye. Perhaps the sun, too, is turning blind? Mostly we know it by a kind of chill in the soul, colder than the wind, deeper than the bones. The chill of night descending.

Now is the time to gather the summer’s riches and preserve them; to gather the windfalls from where they lie, to make the cider with. Cider apples, sour and dry like parchment, that cleave the tongue to the palate. Inedible apples, used only for cider. Or sweet, bruised apples already turning to slime, quickened by a wasp’s kiss into a new kind of chemistry, reeking with decay. To gather the apples and to store them. To let them mould some more. And then to press them beneath huge weights, to crush the juices out of them; to run the juices into fat vats like wooden coffins, so that the old dead year can come alive again.

And then in the orchards we pile high the bone-fires to send sparks into the air, to remind the sun that his children are still here, and that they will need him to return again. We make offerings of cake and cider to the Old Man Of The Fields, the hoariest of the old apple trees; the Grumbling One, never cut back or pruned like the others, so that he moans and creaks beneath the weight of his own branches. And afterwards we open last year’s cider, and drink it by the fire in heaving gulps amidst the laughter of forgetting. Golden cider, like the summer’s sun in a glass, tart reminder of the Earth’s goodly store.

The work is done. The houses have been made dry and secure. The harvest has been gathered. All that can be preserved has been. All that cannot has been eaten. All that is left to do now is to wait, as darkness shrouds the land. The coming winter moans in the branches like an unpleasant rumour. This is the dead time, when dead men walk, when we remember the dead and pay them their dues, when the dead come to visit, to share our world, to join us at meat and drink, to pass themselves off as the living once more, for one night only. A time to pay our respects to all that has gone before.

A few years ago I lived in a van and, instead of the fences and paving slabs and parked cars I can see now, all I could see out my windows were trees. Apple trees, as it happens. It was an orchard. And, of course - this being autumn, then as now - the apple trees were dropping their apples to the ground, leaving them to lie abandoned in the long grass.

That was in Somerset. It was where I lived while I was writing my second book. And in between writing I did the logical thing. I went round picking up the windfalls to give to local farmer to make cider with.

Well I wasn't exactly giving them away. We'd got a deal. I'd give him the apples, and he'd give me cider. I was hoping for lots of cider to make up for all the work I was doing, bending down and picking up apples by the bucketful, and then emptying the buckets into sacks, and then loading the sacks into a trailer to take down to the farm. It was back-breaking work, but worth it. In the end the farmer gave me two gallons of rough, strong cider, about 2lb of Farmhouse Cheddar and the same of creamy Stilton, and fifty pounds in cash. That was for over two months work, and worth every minute of it. There's nothing like a plate of creamy, electric Stilton or tangy, nose-curling Cheddar with a pint of rough, wild cider to end a day of apple-picking. It's not so much a job, as a privilege under those circumstances.

In case you don't know, cider apples are small and tough. You can't eat them. They taste like parchment soaked in dish-water. But they make lovely cider. Also, you pick up every apple, no matter what the condition is. Under-ripe apples. Bruised apples. Spotted apples. Grubby apples. Half-eaten apples. Rotten apples. Under-sized apples. Over-ripe apples. Insect-ridden apples. Mouldy, brown, sloppy apples, dripping with slime and smelling of yeast. Every apple you can see. It's the mould that makes the cider brew.

So I was musing about this, as I was absent-mindedly loading this unpromising harvest into buckets, in between bouts of my writing-work. My mind was wandering. I started to think that apple-picking was a bit like writing, really. "All this dry, tasteless, grubby fruit," I thought, "all this rotten, slimy, bruised and molested material, loaded into paragraphs, then tied up in chapters, to give to the publisher to make a book with. Such an unpromising harvest. Such a heady brew."

Also - as anyone who has ever picked apples will know - you become obsessed. You dream about apples. Every time you close your eyes, you see apples. Every time you're relaxed, it's apples you're thinking about. Apples, apples, apples, dancing about before your eyes, nestled in the bushes or peeping out at you from the long grass. It's your life. You can't see an apple without wanting to grab it. You'll put your hand anywhere, into briars, and nettles and cowpats. You can't stop yourself. Even when the briars catch your flesh and the nettles sting, you just can't stop. In the end you hardly notice the pain. It's apples you want. The sight of an unpicked apple is an affront to your eyes. It belongs in the bucket, and then in the sack. It belongs in the cider press and then in the vat. It belongs in the barrel and then in your glass. Finally it belongs in your mouth.

And while you're doing it, while you're picking up those apples, breathing in the strong, sweet scent, sweating and panting slightly, there's a sense of deep satisfaction, that this process has been going on since the beginning of Time. You know you are doing something ancient and true. Thousands of generations of human beings just like me, picking up the Summer's harvest, so that it can be preserved and enjoyed in the depths of Winter. Sharp, strong cider, like the Summer Sun glowing in your glass.

Steve Andrews, the Bard of Ely, likes cider too. He calls it "the Amber Nectar" or "Druid Fluid", and when he lived in the UK he would drink it with relish (and to excess) about four or five times a year. Good, strong, West Country Cider, you can't beat it, once in a while. But, watch out. It's dangerous stuff. At 6% proof, and still very cheap from the farmer, it's liable to rot your brains. All the West Country farm-workers have florid faces, like mashed strawberries, and they talk in a low, incomprehensible drawl, like the burble of water over a weir. They say they were weaned on cider. And it shows.

It was an apple tree that led to the Fall, remember. Adam and Eve were idling around beneath the Tree of Knowledge, looking at the windfalls on the ground. "What can we do with these?" they wondered. Then they ate of the fruit. It tasted like parchment soaked in dishwater. "I know," they said, "we'll make cider." And the human race was never the same again.