We set off from Norwich in what felt like proper October drizzle, the sort that makes you question why you ever left the house, and promptly took the wrong turning at the roundabout just outside Northrepps. By the time we’d corrected ourselves and pulled up outside the little 3-bed cottage in Cromer, the rain had eased to a fine mist and our boots were already soaked through. The cottage sat just a short stroll from the beach path, its red-brick front softened by the low autumn light, and the key was tucked exactly where the instructions promised.

Stepping inside felt like walking into a warm hug after the damp drive. The living room had that lived-in feel, with a well-stocked bookshelf and a wood burner already laid, which we lit straight away. Outside the window, the garden looked a bit bedraggled in the seasonal wind, but the view towards the sea was still there, grey and restless. We dumped our bags, made a pot of tea, and sat for a moment listening to the logs crackle while the cottage slowly warmed up.

Later we wandered down to the promenade, scarves pulled tight. The beach was almost empty except for a few dog walkers and the odd hardy surfer catching the last of the tide. The season had stripped away the usual crowds, leaving just the sound of waves and the occasional cry of gulls overhead. We grabbed fish and chips from the kiosk that stays open all year, eating them on a bench while the wind tried to nick our paper parcels. It was the sort of meal that tastes better for being slightly uncomfortable.

Back at the cottage, the evening settled in early, the way it does once the clocks go back. We cooked a simple supper in the compact kitchen, using what we’d picked up from the little supermarket in town, and ate at the table by the window. The autumn light had faded to a soft gloom outside, but inside everything felt cosy and contained. I found myself thinking how different this would have felt in July, with the windows open and the garden full of chatter. There’s something quietly reassuring about arriving when the season has already drawn its own lines.

The next morning brought a proper sea mist rolling in, turning the garden into a soft blur and making the cottage feel even more like a small, safe world of its own. We stayed in, reading and playing cards by the fire, occasionally glancing out at the shifting grey. It struck me that the timing had shaped everything, from the empty beach to the early dark, and somehow made the whole trip feel slower and more deliberate. By the time we packed up to leave, the rain had started again, but the cottage still held that lingering warmth, the sort you carry with you for a while after.