I’ll never forget the drive down to Barnstaple in early autumn – that crisp September weekend when the Devon air starts whispering promises of cosy nights in. We’d set off from Bristol full of beans, playlist blaring folk tunes, but about halfway there, disaster struck: a rogue pheasant decided our windscreen was its personal launchpad. Feathers everywhere, heart in my mouth, and me pulling over on the A361 giggling like a fool while my other half fetched the screen wash. “Welcome to rural Devon,” I quipped, brushing off a stray bit of plumage. It was the perfect icebreaker, turning what could’ve been a grumbly start into a story we’d retell for weeks.

By the time we trundled into town, the anticipation was buzzing – golden leaves swirling in the breeze, the sun dipping low enough to paint everything in that soft, harvest glow. Pulling up to our spot, part of a historic property tucked away on a quiet road, we were smitten straight off. It’s this gorgeous apartment, all spacious and inviting, with that big open-plan living area that just screams ‘curl up here forever’. The feature fireplace was begging for logs, the telly primed for a binge, and the kitchen right next to it meant no lonely chef moments. Elegant dining table for two? Tick. Modern touches everywhere, but with a nod to old-school charm that made it feel like a proper treat.

Autumn in North Devon shaped every minute of it. Mornings kicked off with frosty walks along the Taw Estuary, just a short stroll away – mist rolling off the water, blackberries ripe for the picking (we scoffed handfuls straight off the bush, purple fingers and all). The season’s chill nipped at our cheeks, but it made those hot mugs of tea back at the apartment taste like nectar. We’d potter into Barnstaple’s Pannier Market, grabbing seasonal squash and local cider, the stalls heaving under the weight of pumpkin displays and that earthy scent of fallen leaves. One afternoon, we ambled to the nearby Tarka Trail, crunching through coppery carpets of foliage, spotting squirrels hoarding nuts like tiny paranoid bankers. Hilarious watching one dart up a tree with what looked like half a conker in its gob.

Evenings were pure magic, thanks to that seasonal shift. As the days shortened, we’d light the fire (logs from a local supplier – eco-win), sprawl on the massive seating area with a stew bubbling away, and let the flames dance while we chatted rubbish or flicked on a rom-com. No rushing about; autumn’s mellow pace let us savour the space, cooking up intimate dinners at that table, wine glasses catching the firelight. One night, staring into the embers, I had a proper moment of reflection – you know, that quiet realisation that sometimes ditching the daily grind for a weekend like this recharges your soul more than any gym session or green juice ever could. Me, who’s usually rushing from pillar to post, just sitting there content. Who’d have thought?

We squeezed in a bracing beach hop to Crowcombe Sands, about three miles down the road – waves crashing under a slate-grey sky, sand gritty with the first hints of winter salt. Seal-spotting from the dunes, wrapped in scarves, with the wind whipping up that invigorating Devon tang. Back home, the apartment’s warmth wrapped around us like a hug. Leaving felt criminal, but with jars of local honey and fudge in tow, we drove off plotting our next autumn escape. Devon in this season? Absolute perfection for rekindling sparks and rediscovering simple joys.