I’ll never forget the drive down to Devon last autumn – the leaves were turning that gorgeous coppery gold, carpeting the roads like nature’s own welcome mat. We’d set off from Bristol early, buzzing with that holiday anticipation, dreaming of cosy nights in by a crackling fire. But typical me, I took a wrong turn near Tiverton, ending up on some narrow lane that had us white-knuckling it past hedges taller than the car. A pheasant shot out right in front of us, making my other half yelp like a startled cat. We laughed it off, though – nothing kills the vibe like a bit of unplanned adventure, and by the time we hit the A361, the sun was dipping low, painting the North Devon hills in that soft, harvest glow.

Pulling up the private drive just a few miles from Barnstaple felt like slipping into a secret world. First impressions? Magic. This tranquil little cottage screamed romantic retreat, with its enclosed private garden hugging a babbling stream that caught the fading light just right. The wood-fired hot tub sat there invitingly, steam rising lazily, and two decking areas promised lazy afternoons with a cuppa or al fresco suppers under the stars. It was the perfect antidote to the autumn chill creeping in – you could almost feel the season wrapping around you like a favourite scarf.

Autumn shaped every minute of our stay, turning ordinary moments into something properly special. Mornings started with mist rolling off the stream, the garden alive with rustling leaves and the odd squirrel darting about. We’d fire up the hot tub as the wood smoke mingled with that earthy, damp air – pure bliss after a brisk walk along the nearby South-West Coast Path. Just six miles away, the golden sands of Saunton, Croyde, and Woolacombe were calling, but in October, they were gloriously empty. We crunched over dunes fringed with turning bracken, the sea a moody slate grey crashing against the shore. No crowds, just us, the wind whipping up salt spray, and horizon views that stretched forever. One afternoon, we found a secret cove tucked into the cliffs – waves lapping at pebbles, gulls wheeling overhead. It was bracing, invigorating, the kind of cold that makes your cheeks glow and reminds you why you love this country.

Evenings were all about that seasonal hygge. We’d hunker down with local pasties from Barnstaple market – proper Devon ones, stuffed with steak and spuds – then sink into the hot tub as twilight deepened, the garden lit by fairy lights reflecting off the water. One night, stars pierced the crisp sky like diamonds, no light pollution to spoil it. We wandered the woods nearby too, kicking through fallen leaves, the air thick with that mushroomy scent before the real rains hit.

Looking back, that little mishap on the drive was a gift – it made me slow down, appreciate the season’s quiet drama. Autumn in Devon isn’t flashy like summer; it’s introspective, restorative. We left feeling recharged, already plotting a return for next year’s golden hour. If you’re after a proper escape, this corner of North Devon in the fall? It’s unbeatable.