We’d barely turned off the main road when the satnav decided we were already at Pipistrelle Barn and cheerfully announced we’d arrived in someone’s driveway. It was late September, the light already softening into that honeyed Devon glow, and we were still three fields away. After a sheepish three-point turn and a polite wave to the startled farmer, we finally rattled down the last lane and spotted the barn’s stone walls glowing against the hills.

The air felt different the moment we stepped out—cooler, salt-tinged, with the faintest trace of woodsmoke drifting from somewhere inland. September had already stripped most of the tourists from Combe Martin’s little seafront, leaving the beach to locals and their dogs, and the quiet suited the barn perfectly. Its big oak door creaked like an old friend as we pushed it open, and the first thing that hit us was the warmth: underfloor heating, thoughtfully left on, battling the early-autumn chill that had crept in while we were still unpacking the car.

We dumped our bags and wandered straight back outside, drawn by the low sun slanting across the fields. From the garden you could just glimpse the sea between the hedgerows, a strip of restless silver that seemed to change colour every few minutes. The owner had left a note suggesting a short path through the meadow that led to a kissing gate and, beyond it, the coastal footpath. We followed it that first evening, jackets zipped against the breeze that now carried the sharper edge of autumn.

Back at the barn, the kitchen window framed a sky streaked with pink and gold, and we cooked a lazy supper while listening to the occasional bleat from the neighbouring field. It struck me, as I stirred a pot and watched the light fade, how much the season had already altered the pace of everything. In July the same cottage would have been surrounded by flip-flops and laughter spilling from neighbouring gardens; now the quiet felt deliberate, almost luxurious. We didn’t need to rush anywhere because there wasn’t anywhere left to rush to.

Later, wrapped in blankets on the little patio, we watched the first stars appear and listened to the distant hush of waves. The mishap with the satnav already felt like part of the story, a gentle reminder that arriving somewhere isn’t always straightforward, especially when the days are shortening and the landscape itself seems to be settling down for winter.