A sunny October day seems to have a unique energy. It pulls you from your chair and tugs you outside, all the time reminding you that this may be the last nice day to plant bulbs, clean eavestroughs, or complete the yard clean-up. There is just enough crisp liveliness in the air to make you consider a walk or a bike ride.

Even the couch potato sports enthusiast will stand on his deck with a coffee and struggle with the choice of the World Outside or the World Series. He will hear the warning in the branches of the nasty days to come and understands that his procrastinating ends this week-end.

Tens of thousands of people listened to the autumn message and headed for Fort 91原创 last weekend. Fort 91原创 is a pleasant destination any time of the year but, add 80 vendors, a food court,lively music and couple of tons of cranberries for sale, and you have a festival. The 16th annual Cranberry Festival, to be exact.

I involve my friends in the activities I take on, so when they need help they call in their favours. Unfortunately, my duties for this event did not include stages or microphones or tuxedos. At 5 a.m., I am headed to the Fort in work boots and blue jeans to install barricades, place generators, set up tables and chairs and show vendors to their locations.

It is dark and chilly and as I come across the Salmon River flats, a heavy mist is drifting into the town. I know from experience that this fall day could go in any direction in a few hours. The time goes by quickly and the move in goes smoothly. Then at 10 a.m., on cue, the sun burns through the fog and the festival goers are treated to a splendid display of produce, crafts, smells, and music.

Before long the streets are choked, the booths are crowded and the shops and restaurants along the street are busy. There are line-ups for pancakes and cranberry sales and a crowd has gathered around the stage. Some folks trudge along complaining about how far away they had to park. They are passed by others striding along, faces turned to the sky and enjoying their morning stroll.

As I circulate through the crowd trying to avoid the task master I am working for, I see bags being filled with preserves and jams and honey and vegetables. I hear recipes being traded and watch old friends renewing acquaintances. The little village is full to overflowing and it sparkles proudly against a backdrop of golden trees shining along the channel.

It is a family day and children ride the miniature train, play with the games or marvel at the 960 lb. pumpkin on display. I watch a four-year-old Asian boy clapping hands and tapping time, while a champion fiddle player plays a catchy rendition of Five Foot Two, Eyes of Blue; a modern little boy enjoying a song from the 1920s.

As we leave the Fort at 7 p.m., the tents are gone the streets are quiet; the music has faded up into the branches and the rain has started. But the exceptional fall day was not wasted and the sore muscles are just the sign of a job well done.

I hope you got everything done this weekend; after all, you were warned. At least that鈥檚 what McGregor says.