I’ll never forget the drive down to Woolacombe last autumn – the A39 twisting through those golden Exmoor hills, leaves crunching under the tyres like nature’s own crisps. It was mid-October, that sweet spot where summer’s grip loosens but winter hasn’t barged in yet, and I was buzzing with that holiday anticipation, windows down, radio blasting some cheesy 90s tunes. Then, classic me, I took a wrong turn near Braunton, ending up in a muddy farm lane with cows staring at me like I’d gatecrashed their tea party. A quick reverse and a sheepish U-turn later, we were back on track, laughing about my hopeless sense of direction.

Pulling up to the apartment that afternoon, the first impressions hit like a warm hug. Perched right in the heart of Woolacombe, with the sea just a stone’s throw away, it was this cosy, modern two-bed spot perfect for me, my other half, and our scruffy spaniel, Monty. Pets welcome – what a win. The autumn light was doing its magic, painting everything in soft amber hues, and as we unloaded, the salty breeze carried that crisp edge, hinting at cosy nights in.

That time of year shaped every minute. Mornings started with bracing walks along Woolacombe Beach, the sand still wide and empty now the crowds had thinned. The sea was a moody grey-green, waves rolling in with just enough surf for the die-hards in wetsuits, but we stuck to paddling, toes numb after five minutes – proper British seaside masochism. Monty chased seaweed like it was a tennis ball, coming back covered in wet sand that took ages to hoover up. One day, we timed it for low tide and wandered over to Barricane Beach, that little sheltered cove where you sometimes spot exotic shells washed up from the Atlantic. The autumn sun filtered through low clouds, turning the rock pools into shimmering mirrors, and we spent hours poking about, feeling like kids on a treasure hunt.

Afternoons were for gentle rambles up to Morte Point, the cliffs alive with gorse still blooming yellow against the turning bracken. The wind whipped up, carrying that earthy, post-harvest scent, and we’d pause to watch seals bobbing in the bay below – closer than summer, when the haze keeps them distant. Back at the apartment, we’d brew tea and cook up pasties from the local shop, windows fogging from the steam while Monty snoozed by the radiator. Evenings brought that early dusk, perfect for firing up the slow cooker with a Devon stew, then strolling five minutes to a pub for a pint, fairy lights twinkling against the darkening sky.

Looking back, that autumn hush was the real star. No queueing for chips, just space to breathe and reflect. I caught myself one foggy morning on the beach, mug in hand, thinking how I’d been rushing through life back home – work emails at midnight, you know the drill. Here, with the waves whispering and leaves swirling, it was a gentle nudge to slow down. Monty’s tail-wagging joy didn’t hurt either. If you’re after a proper unwind, hit Devon in autumn – it’s like the county saves its best secrets for then. We’re already plotting a return.