I’ll never forget the drive down to the Cotswolds last autumn – leaves turning that glorious copper and gold, the kind of scene that makes you pull over for a sneaky photo, even if you’re knackered from London traffic. We’d piled into the car with my lot – kids, in-laws, the works – aiming for a big family getaway near Tetbury. But halfway there, disaster struck: a rogue pheasant decided our windscreen was its personal runway. Feathers everywhere, heart in my mouth, and the satnav cheerfully ignoring my panic. A quick stop at a village garage sorted the glass (cheers, Dave the mechanic), but it had us laughing about our “wild welcome” by the time we trundled up the final lanes.

Pulling into the sweeping parkland just as the afternoon sun dipped low, casting long shadows over the honeyed hills, I felt that proper tingle of anticipation. What if it wasn’t as idyllic as the photos? But blimey, first impressions didn’t disappoint. This grand old Grade II listed country house, evolved over centuries into a sprawling family retreat with ten beautifully styled bedrooms sleeping up to 20, welcomed us like a warm hug. Set within the Matara Centre’s grounds, it blended history with modern comforts perfectly – ideal for our multi-generational mob. We spilled out, bags tumbling, straight into that crisp October air, already buzzing.

Autumn shaped every minute of our stay, turning the ordinary into magic. Mornings started with mist rolling off the fields like a gentle smokescreen, perfect for wrapping up in scarves and heading out for walks along Tetbury’s winding paths. The woods were a carpet of crunching leaves, conkers begging to be pocketed by the grandkids (who promptly lost them all under the sofas). We’d return rosy-cheeked to the house’s cosy nooks, firing up the Aga for soups made from veg plucked from nearby farms – pumpkin, that deep orange glow everywhere you looked. One day, we wandered just a mile or so to the high street, nabbing pasties from the bakery and scoffing them on a bench, watching the world go by as golden foliage swirled in the breeze. Pure bliss, no rush.

Evenings were the real treat, with that seasonal chill drawing us together. We’d gather in the vast sitting rooms, fairy lights twinkling against the darkening skies outside, playing board games till the fire crackled low. The kids built dens from cushions, while us adults cracked open local ciders, toasting the harvest moon rising fat and full over the parkland. One night, a gentle drizzle pattered the windows – typical Cotswolds autumn – so we stayed in, rustling up a feast of roast chicken and seasonal puds, laughter echoing off the high ceilings. It felt like stepping into a Brambly Hedge tale, all snug and timeless.

Looking back, that pheasant mishap was a gift – a reminder not to take these escapes too seriously. In the whirl of daily life, I often forget how a change of season can reset you. Autumn at this place didn’t just host our holiday; it wrapped us in its mellow embrace, coaxing us to slow down, connect, and savour the simple joys. If you’re chasing that for your next family do, pack your wellies and go – you won’t regret it.