I’ll never forget the drive down to Looe in mid-September – the A38 was its usual crawl, and just past Plymouth, we had a proper comedy of errors when the satnav decided to send us on a detour through some narrow lanes that felt more like goat tracks. Leaves were already turning that gorgeous coppery shade, crunching under the tyres, and a sudden shower had us all laughing as we hydroplaned a bit before pulling over for pasties from a roadside van. By the time we rolled into town, the anticipation was buzzing – Cornwall in early autumn is magic, isn’t it? The sea air crisp, crowds thinning out, but everything still alive with that post-summer glow.

Pulling up to the cottage, my heart did a little flip. It’s one of those classic terraced spots right in the heart of things, all cosy and inviting with its nautical touches that scream seaside escape. First impressions? Spot on. We dumped the bags and cracked open the windows to that briny breeze – September’s milder temps meant no stifling heat, just perfect for flopping on the sofa with a cuppa, watching the light fade over the harbour.

The season shaped every minute, really. Mornings started with misty walks along Hannafore Beach, just a stroll away, where the tide pools shimmered under weak sun and dog walkers nodded hellos. No scorching sand burns here; instead, the cooler air made paddling feel invigorating, like dipping into nature’s spa. We’d spot seals bobbing offshore, their heads popping up cheekily, and the waves had that gentle, hypnotic roll without summer’s wild surf. One afternoon, we wandered the coastal path to Portnadler Cove – all ferns turning rusty and blackberries ripe for picking. I scoffed handfuls straight off the bush, feeling like a kid again, though I did reflect later how I’ve gotten a tad too comfortable with my city routine; holidays like this remind you to slow down, breathe deeper.

Evenings were pure bliss, thanks to autumn’s earlier dusk. We’d fire up the cottage’s little grill for fresh mackerel from the Looe fish market – still jumping with boats unloading the day’s catch, but queues half what they’d be in July. Cosy nights in with board games, the windows steamed from chowder simmering on the hob, rain pattering softly outside. No battling for tables at the pub; we snagged a corner at the Ship Inn, supping local ales while swapping stories with fishermen weathered by the year’s storms.

A tiny mishap on our last day – I slipped on wet rocks at the beach, ending up with soggy trousers and a bruised ego – but it just added to the charm. September in Cornwall strips away the frenzy, leaving space for proper connection: with each other, the sea, the shifting light. Driving home, past those golden fields, I was already plotting a return. If you’ve not tried it this time of year, do – it’s Cornwall at its most soul-stirring.