I’ll never forget the drive down to Devon last autumn – the leaves were turning that gorgeous coppery gold, carpeting the roads like nature’s own welcome mat. We piled into the car from London, kids buzzing in the back with crisps and iPads, me navigating with a dodgy signal on my phone. About halfway, disaster struck: a rogue pheasant decided to play chicken with us on a narrow lane near Totnes. I slammed the brakes, heart in my mouth, and we all burst out laughing as it strutted off unscathed. “Close shave with the local wildlife,” my husband quipped. Typical me, turning a scenic drive into mild chaos, but it set the tone for a proper family adventure.

By the time we rolled up to our holiday home in the late afternoon, the anticipation was electric. Nestled in this exclusive little village development near Dartmouth, overlooking a pristine all-weather tennis court, it promised peace and luxury for our group of eight (we’d crammed in mates too). First impressions? Blown away. The stylish setup screamed autumnal hygge – think plush sofas begging for cosy evenings, a telly the size of a small cinema, and those massive windows framing the fading light over the gardens. The air was crisp, carrying that earthy scent of damp leaves and woodsmoke, perfect for shaking off the city grime.

Autumn shaped every minute of our stay, turning ordinary moments magical. Mornings started with mist rolling off the surrounding Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty, like something out of a Brambly Hedge book. We’d wander the beautiful gardens, crunching through fallen leaves, the kids racing to the play area while we nattered over coffee. No summer crowds here – just us, the russet hues, and the odd squirrel plotting acorn heists. One day, we ventured into Dartmouth, all blackberries bursting along the lanes and that bracing sea breeze whipping up. We mooched around the harbour, watching fishing boats bob in the slate-grey water, then grabbed pasties from a tiny bakery that hit the spot after a blustery cliff-top walk to a nearby cove. The beaches were empty save for dog-walkers, waves crashing dramatically against the shingle under overcast skies. Pure, unfiltered Devon.

Back at the house, the season’s chill made indoor lounging irresistible. We challenged each other on the tennis court – me in my wellies, slipping about like Bambi on ice, which had everyone in stitches. “Mum’s got two left feet and a racket phobia,” the teens teased. Evenings were for slow-cooked stews (sourced from the local farm shop’s pumpkin haul), board games by the fire pit, and stargazing when the clouds parted, the Milky Way sharper than I’d seen in years. No light pollution, just that velvet autumn night sky.

Reflecting on it now, over a month later, I realise how that golden season forced us to slow down. No frantic beach days or BBQs; instead, proper chats, daft mishaps, and breathing in the quiet beauty. In a world that rushes everywhere, this spot – with its luxury comforts and wild surrounds – reminded me why escaping to Devon in autumn is pure genius. We’re already plotting a return.