I’ll never forget the drive to Blakeney last autumn – leaves turning that glorious mix of gold and rust, carpeting the lanes like nature’s own confetti. We’d set off from home full of that buzzy anticipation, dreaming of cosy nights in after bracing walks, but about halfway there, disaster struck: a rogue pheasant decided to play chicken with our car bonnet. Heart in my mouth, we pulled over, only to find the daft bird had scarpered unscathed. A quick laugh and a cuppa from the thermos later, we were back on track, the Forest of Dean’s winding roads hugging us closer to our charming little holiday house near the village.

Pulling up to the place felt like stumbling into a hug from an old mate. Tucked away with off-road parking on a shared drive, it had that perfect unpretentious vibe – just what we needed for a family getaway. Stepping inside, the sitting room wrapped us in warmth with its telly ready for footie or films, and the kitchen-diner screamed “whip up a stew”. The utility room was a godsend too, with the washing machine saving us from lugging muddy wellies home. First impressions? Spot on. Autumn’s mellow light filtered through the windows, making everything feel invitingly snug.

That time of year shaped every moment, didn’t it? Mornings started with mist clinging to the River Severn, just a short stroll away – we’d wander down to Awre’s quiet banks, kicking through crunchy leaves while the kids collected conkers. Blakeney’s village high street, not five minutes’ drive, was a treat: the little post office for papers and pasties, and the pub dishing out proper pies that hit the spot after a chill in the air. One afternoon, we ambled to Newnham’s paths, the woods alive with that earthy scent of decay and damp, fungi popping up like hidden treasures. The cooler days meant layers on, but oh, the joy of coming back to hot chocolate and board games as daylight faded early.

We even timed a trip to the Severn Way for sunset – the water reflecting those fiery hues, seals bobbing about if you’re lucky (we weren’t, but the otters made up for it). Light humour came when I slipped on a slick chestnut, ending up arse-over-tit in a pile of leaves; the family’s giggles echoed louder than the rustling trees. It got me reflecting, though – amid the seasonal frenzy of back-to-school and work deadlines, this break reminded me how autumn strips things back. No rush, just the simple rhythm of woodsmoke in the air, apple crumbles baking, and stars pricking the ink-black sky by tea time.

Evenings in the house were pure bliss: cooking up foraged-inspired suppers (well, shop-bought pumpkins, but you get the gist), the dining table groaning under roasts while rain pattered outside. It wasn’t glamorous, but that’s the magic of Blakeney in autumn – raw, restorative, and utterly real. We left with full hearts and fuller bellies, already plotting next year’s leaf-peeping return.