I’ll never forget the drive down to north Devon last autumn – the leaves were just starting to turn that gorgeous coppery gold, carpeting the verges like someone had scattered a million pound coins. Me and the missus piled into the car with the dog, Monty, sticking his nose out the window the whole way, and a boot full of wellies and Thermos flasks. We hit a bit of a snag near Barnstaple, though – some cheeky cow decided to block the road for a photoshoot with her calf right in the middle, turning our smooth cruise into a 20-minute standstill. I was fuming at first, but then I thought, well, it’s Devon in October; everything moves at nature’s pace here, doesn’t it?

By the time we rolled up to the shoreline apartment in Woolacombe, the anticipation had me buzzing like a kid at Christmas. The sea air hit us first, that crisp, briny tang sharpened by the autumn chill, and the first glimpse of the property had us grinning ear to ear. It’s one of those cosy self-catering flats right by the beach, all welcoming and unpretentious with its sea-view windows and that lived-in charm perfect for a family getaway. Pets welcome too, which was a godsend for Monty, who immediately claimed the rug as his throne.

That first afternoon set the tone perfectly for the season. We wandered down to Woolacombe Beach, which was blissfully empty – no summer crowds jostling for space, just vast expanses of golden sand under a huge, moody sky. The waves were still rolling in with proper force, frothy whitecaps crashing against the rocks, but the water had that post-summer coolness that made dipping a toe in feel like a dare. I managed a brisk walk along the shoreline, boots squelching in the damp sand, while the low sun painted everything in amber hues. It was magical, really – the kind of light that makes you pull out your phone for a dozen dodgy photos you’ll never look at again.

Evenings were all about that autumnal hygge. We’d fire up the oven for a proper roast, windows steaming up as the scent of potatoes and gravy filled the flat. Then it was out to the terrace (braving the nippy breeze) with mugs of tea, watching the sunset bleed pink and purple over the Atlantic. One night, we even spotted seals bobbing about down below, their heads popping up like curious neighbours. Monty was in heaven, chasing shadows and sniffing every seaweed clump.

A hike up to Baggy Point one misty morning was a highlight – the bracken all rusty red, gorse still blooming defiantly yellow against the grey sea. The wind whipped around us, but it felt alive, invigorating, not the oppressive summer heat. I had a proper moment of reflection up there, sat on a bench with a pasty from the village shop, thinking how this time of year strips away the tourist frenzy and leaves you with Devon’s raw soul. No tan lines or ice creams needed; just layers, laughter, and that deep contentment from being outside when the world’s winding down.

We didn’t fancy the drive further afield – everything we needed was right there within a stone’s throw. A potter to Mortehoe for a cream tea (jelly optional, clotted cream mandatory), or just beachcombing for driftwood treasures. Monty even found a crab to bark at, which kept us chuckling. Autumn made it all so unhurried, so real. If you’re after a holiday that feels like a warm hug from the countryside, book something like this in the off-season. I’m already plotting our return – next year, with thermals.