We set off from the ferry at Cowes on a blustery October afternoon, the kind where the Solent looks more like a washing machine than a stretch of water. My satnav cheerfully announced we’d arrive in four minutes, which was optimistic given that Aquanaut sits down a narrow lane lined with dripping hydrangeas. We found the place easily enough, but the small but funny mishap arrived the moment I tried to reverse the car into the gravel parking spot. The rear wheel sank straight into a hidden puddle left by the morning’s rain, sending a satisfying arc of muddy water up the side of my jacket and straight into my ear. My partner’s laughter carried over the sound of the waves, and I decided then and there that dignity was optional for the weekend.

Once we’d hauled the bags inside, the cottage felt like a warm hug after the chill outside. The owners had left the heating ticking over just enough, and the big window in the living room framed a slice of shingle beach that was already turning pewter under the low autumn sun. October light does something particular to the Isle of Wight; it turns everything slightly nostalgic, as though the summer crowds had packed up their buckets and left the place to the locals and the seagulls. We made tea in mismatched mugs and carried it straight out onto the little deck, where the breeze carried the clean smell of salt and wet wood.

The first proper walk along the beach happened just before dusk. The tide was out far enough to reveal dark ribbons of seaweed, and the few other dog-walkers we passed gave the polite half-nod that says “we’re both pretending it isn’t actually quite cold.” Back at Aquanaut the little kitchen proved perfectly sized for two people who’d rather eat fish and chips from paper than cook, so we wandered the short distance into Cowes for takeaway and ate it cross-legged on the rug while rain tapped at the windows. The cottage’s thick curtains kept the weather out but not the sound of it, and there’s something oddly soothing about listening to October rain when you know you don’t have to go anywhere.

Later, lying in bed with the duvet pulled up to our chins, I found myself thinking how different this trip would have felt in July. Then the garden would have been full of the scent of sun-warmed lavender and the beach would have been noisy with families; now it belonged to us and the season. The mishap with the puddle already felt like part of the story rather than an inconvenience, and I realised that arriving slightly damp and dishevelled had set exactly the right tone for a weekend that was never going to be polished. Sometimes the best holidays are the ones that start with a splash and then settle into the quiet rhythm of an island catching its breath before winter.