'Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness' - Keats

For some reason, autumn has always been a motivational season for me.  Maybe it’s the crisper air, the ripe blackberries I can pick on my walk around the lake, the vibrant colors in nature.  It could also be that this time of year is when the veil between the worlds gets progressively thinner, allowing us contact with those who have moved beyond the physical plane. 

Whatever the reason, during this 'season of mists,' stories pop out at me from a wide variety of locations . . .
Not far from where I live, there’s a circle of standing stones that was probably erected thousands of years ago.  When I visit this place, I can practically hear beating drums and chanting voices.  The air fairly vibrates with some ancient energy.  It makes me wonder if there are spirits there, longing for their story to be told. 

Spiders are always frantically spinning webs this time of year.  I awoke the other morning to a metropolis of spider webs outside my barn and suddenly had an idea for a very dark, arachnid-dystopian sequel to Charlotte’s Web

A friend gave me a ride into town the other day to pick up my car from the mechanic.  Her car is ancient and inside it was littered with old blankets, dirty clothes, a paint-by-numbers kit, a bicycle tyre, discarded soda cans, various toys and things I couldn’t identify, and every kind of food wrapper imaginable.  Given an afternoon alone in that car, I think I could have come up with a dynamite spec script for a sitcom about a dysfunctional family. 

Once I nearly bought a pair of old shoes from a thrift store that were 3 sizes too small, just because they gave me a great idea for a crime novel. 

This morning, I drove by the local castle that Oliver Cromwell blew a hole threw with one of this canons.  (Clearly, that man wasn’t getting enough fiber in his diet or he just never got laid.)  From a distance, the old building looked sad and beautiful, but as I got closer, a flock of ducks quacked at me incessantly and tried to usher me away from the castle.  I speculate these ducks were Cromwellian soldiers in their past lives and have been reincarnated as water fowl and forced to guard this castle for all the foul deeds they committed in their past lives.  Don’t tell me there’s not a story there.  
An autumnal challenge for anyone who’s interested:  Sit down with paper and a pen in some location you find interesting and try automatic writing, without even looking at the paper.  I’d love to read of anyone else’s favourite places and the stories those places inspire.