I’ll never forget the drive down to Appledore last autumn – that golden time of year when Devon’s hedges burst with blackberries and the air smells like damp leaves and promise. We’d piled into the car from Bristol, me navigating with a dodgy sat-nav that decided to have a mid-journey tantrum just as we hit the A39. It rerouted us through some winding back lane, leaving us stuck behind a tractor trundling along at snail’s pace, berries dangling temptingly from the verges. I was half tempted to hop out and pick a handful, but with the kids in the back moaning about hunger, we pressed on, anticipation building as the River Torridge came into view, its surface shimmering under that crisp October sun.

Pulling up to our holiday home felt like stumbling into a hug from an old mate. Tucked away quietly on the village outskirts, this luxurious spot for ten – pet-friendly, thank goodness, with our daft Labrador in tow – had us grinning from ear to ear. River views from the windows? Tick. Just a 300-metre stroll to the quayside? Perfect. First impressions were spot on: cosy inside, with everything we needed after that faffing drive, and outside, the autumn light painted the garden in those rich russet tones that make your heart swell.

Autumn shaped every minute of our stay, turning the ordinary into magic. Mornings started with mist rolling off the river, wrapping the village in a soft, ethereal glow as we wandered down to the heart of Appledore. The seafaring pubs had thatched roofs glowing amber, and the cafes overflowed with locals nursing hot chocolates topped with swirling cream – none of your summer iced nonsense here. We grabbed pasties from a bakery, steam rising in the chill air, and watched fishing boats bob gently, their hulls slick with dew. The South West Coast Path called to us next, leaves crunching underfoot as we hiked a stretch towards Westward Ho!, just three miles off. The sea was a moody slate grey, waves crashing with that invigorating roar, but the bracken was at its fiery peak, and we foraged for chestnuts on the way back, the kids’ cheeks rosy from the wind.

One afternoon, we hopped over to Bideford – a quick three-mile jaunt – for a mooch around the market. Autumn’s bounty was everywhere: pumpkins stacked high, fudge stalls doing a roaring trade, and that Tarka Trail tempting us for a cycle. We rented bikes and pedalled along the old railway, golden foliage arching overhead like nature’s tunnel of light, stopping for cream teas that hit different in this season – warmer, heartier, somehow more satisfying. Even the dog loved it, splashing in puddles without a care.

There was a quiet moment of reflection one evening, sat on the terrace as the sun dipped, painting the river in fiery oranges. With a group this big – family and mates crammed in – I realised how autumn strips things back, makes you appreciate the simple stuff: laughter echoing over mulled cider, the crackle of a fire inside, no rush to beach days or barbecues. It was restorative, grounding. Sure, we skipped The Big Sheep that week – too chilly for little ones – but who needs it when the season hands you this?

If you’re after North Devon in autumn, this is your spot. Quiet, views for days, and memories that stick like bramble stains on your jeans. We’re already plotting a return.