We’d barely made it through the door of the 3 Bed Cottage in Ilfracombe before the heavens opened, and of course that was the exact moment I realised I’d left the key in the ignition. There we were, rain pelting the slate roof, suitcases already half-soaked on the doorstep, and me sprinting back down the lane like a soggy fool while my partner laughed from the porch. It was early October, that peculiar Devon shoulder season when the summer crowds have thinned but the sea still holds a surprising warmth, and the cottage felt like it had been waiting just for us.

Inside, everything was cosy in the way only these old stone places manage. The living room caught the last of the afternoon light through its low windows, throwing soft shadows across the wooden floorboards. A faint smell of woodsmoke lingered from previous guests, and someone had left a half-burnt candle on the mantel that smelled faintly of pine. We kicked off our wet shoes and padded about in socks, discovering the little kitchen with its well-stocked tea cupboard and the steep stairs that led to the three bedrooms upstairs. The smallest one had a view straight over the rooftops to the grey-green curve of the bay, and I stood there for a moment just watching the waves break against the harbour wall.

Later, once the rain eased, we wandered the short path down to the beach. October meant the tide was lower than we’d expected, revealing stretches of dark, ridged sand usually hidden beneath day-trippers’ feet. A few dog walkers passed us, their Labradors bounding after sticks, and the air carried that clean, salty sharpness that only seems to appear once the summer heat has gone. We didn’t stay long; the wind was picking up again, but it was enough to feel properly arrived.

Back at the cottage, we lit the fire with the basket of logs left by the door and cooked a simple supper while the windows steamed up. There’s something quietly reassuring about being in a place like this when the season is turning. You notice the small comforts more: the way the radiators click on just as your feet start to chill, the extra blanket folded at the end of the bed, the way the sea sounds different through the glass when the wind changes direction. I found myself thinking how rarely we slow down enough to notice these things at home, how a bit of rain and a forgotten key had forced us to arrive properly instead of rushing straight into plans.

By the time we turned in, the cottage had already started to feel familiar. Outside, the occasional car hissed along the wet road, and somewhere in the distance a foghorn sounded once, low and mournful. We pulled the curtains against the dark and let the cottage settle around us, grateful for the quiet that only comes when the season has gently nudged the crowds away.