I’ll never forget the drive down to the Forest of Dean last autumn – the leaves were turning that glorious mix of gold and crimson, carpeting the roads like nature’s own welcome mat. Me and the missus piled into the car from the Midlands, full of beans about our first proper break in ages. But typical me, about halfway there, I took a wrong turn onto some narrow lane that had me convinced we’d end up in a bad episode of Countryfile. Sat nav went haywire with the dodgy signal, and we laughed it off over a thermos of tea while reversing past a herd of curious cows. By the time we rolled up, though, the anticipation had built – I could practically smell the woodsmoke and damp earth already.

Pulling into Whitstable just as the sun dipped low over the sea, we were gobsmacked by the first impressions. This gracious and elegant ground-floor apartment right on the seafront was a proper gem, with unrestricted views straight out to the waves crashing under a fiery sky. From the Arts and Crafts entrance to the beautifully upholstered window seats, it felt like stepping into someone’s lovingly kept secret. The owners have nailed that characterful vibe, furnished for folk who appreciate the finer things without any fuss. And with all those individual shops, cafes, restaurants and pubs just a stroll away – shops 200 yards off, pubs at 500 – we knew a week wouldn’t scratch the surface.

Autumn shaped every minute of it, turning the ordinary into magic. Mornings started with mist rolling in off the coast, zero miles from our door, wrapping the pebble beach in a soft haze that begged for a brisk walk. We’d crunch along the shore, breath fogging in the chill air, spotting oyster shells glinting like treasures. The season’s mellow light made everything glow – those hazy sunsets from the window seat were pure poetry, pint in hand from the nearby pub. One day, we wandered to the harbour where the autumn oyster festival was in full swing; fresh Whitstable natives piled high, washed down with local ale. The air was alive with brine and chatter, leaves swirling around our ankles like confetti.

We hired bikes for the Crab and Winkle Way, that old railway path now a leafy trail hugging the coast. The trees arched overhead in fiery canopies, shedding russet showers with every gust – I must’ve looked a right lemon, dodging them while pretending I was in some Tour de France peloton. Lunch at a tiny cafe tucked away: pumpkin soup steaming against the nippy breeze, followed by crab sandwiches that tasted of the sea itself. Evenings, we’d cosy up in the apartment as the wind howled outside, cooking up foraged-inspired grub – chestnuts roasted on the hob, cider mulled with spices. It was blissfully slow, the kind of holiday that sneaks up on you.

Sitting there one night, watching the sea turn inky under a harvest moon, I had a proper moment of reflection. Life’s been a whirlwind lately – work, kids, the lot – but this autumn escape reminded me how a change of season, and a cracking spot like this, can reset the soul. No grand adventures needed; just the rustle of leaves, the tang of salt, and good company. We left feeling utterly refreshed, already plotting a return when winter’s frost adds its own sparkle. If you’re after a holiday that lets the time of year steal the show, this is it.