We set off for the cottage in Northrepps on one of those crisp October mornings when the sky can’t decide whether it’s still clinging to summer or has fully surrendered to autumn. The drive itself was straightforward enough, but about ten minutes from the house I took a wrong turn down a lane that looked promising on the map and ended up wedged between two tractors at a farm gate. By the time we’d reversed out, laughing at my complete lack of sense of direction, the light had already shifted to that soft, low gold that only seems to happen this time of year.

Pulling up to the seven-bedroom cottage felt like arriving somewhere that had been waiting just for us. The garden was scattered with fallen leaves, and the air carried that unmistakable mix of salt and woodsmoke. Inside, the rooms were warm and welcoming, the kind of space that makes you want to kick off your shoes straight away. We’d chosen October deliberately, wanting the quieter rhythm of the shoulder season, and it showed in every detail: no queues at the little shop in the village, and the beach path almost entirely ours.

That first afternoon we wandered down to the sea, scarves buttoned against a breeze that carried more bite than it had in September. The tide was high, waves folding over themselves in long, foamy lines, and the sand was patterned with the first proper storm wrack of the autumn. We didn’t stay long, just long enough to feel the season properly, then headed back for mugs of tea and the slow business of unpacking. Later, as dusk arrived early, we lit the fire and watched the flames catch while rain tapped at the windows; it felt like the cottage had been built for exactly this kind of evening.

What struck me most, though, was how the shorter days changed the pace of everything. There was no pressure to fill every hour with plans; instead we found ourselves lingering over meals, reading by the window as the light faded, and talking more than we usually do on holiday. I caught myself wondering, not for the first time, why we so often race through the brighter months and only slow down when the year itself tells us to. Standing at the back door that first night, listening to the wind moving through the garden, I felt quietly grateful we’d listened this time.