I’ll never forget the drive down to North Devon last autumn – the leaves were turning that gorgeous coppery gold, carpeting the verges like someone had scattered a million pound coins. Me and the missus piled into the car from Bristol, full of that buzzy anticipation you get before a proper getaway. But about halfway, disaster struck: a rogue pheasant decided to play chicken with our windscreen. Thump! Feathers everywhere, heart in my mouth, and me pulling over on a narrow lane thinking, ‘Great start, lads.’ Turned out the bird was fine – just a feisty flap-off – but it had us laughing nervously for the next ten miles.

By the time we rolled into Combe Martin, the late October sun was dipping low, painting the sea a sparkly orange. Our holiday cottage was this cosy little two-bed number, all tucked away in a quiet spot with that classic seaside charm – you know, the kind that makes you go “ahh” the second you step inside. First impressions? Spot on. The wood-burner was already stocked, and with the chill in the air, it felt like the place was giving us a big, warm hug right off the bat.

Autumn in North Devon is pure magic, isn’t it? No summer crowds clogging up the paths, just us and the wind whipping off the Atlantic. We wandered down to Combe Martin’s beach that first afternoon – the tide was out, revealing these vast, rippled sands littered with seaweed and the odd crab scuttling for cover. The air had that crisp, salty bite, perfect for filling your lungs while the waves crashed in with a frothy roar. I stood there for ages, hands in pockets, feeling properly small against the cliffs – a rare moment of gentle self-reflection, pondering how a daft pheasant detour led to this.

Next day, we tackled the South West Coast Path, starting right from the village. The season meant the bracken was all rusty red, and blackberries hung fat on the bushes – we picked a punnet’s worth, fingers purple and sticky, for a crumble later. Packhorse Inn for a pint by the fire? Yes please. The low sun slanted through the pub windows, turning the ale golden, and locals chatted about the recent gales like old mates. No rushing about; autumn slows everything down, lets you savour it.

Evenings were the best. Back at the cottage, we’d light the fire, crack open a bottle of red, and listen to the sea murmuring outside. One night, a massive storm rolled in – rain lashing the windows, wind howling like a banshee. Instead of fretting, we hunkered down with stew and a board game, giggling when the lights flickered. It was cosy chaos, the kind that makes you appreciate a solid roof.

A short hop to Hunter’s Inn (barely a couple of miles) gifted us a misty valley walk through ancient woods, leaves crunching underfoot and fungi popping up like little autumn treasures. The season shaped every bit – cooler temps meant empty trails, vibrant colours everywhere, and that fresh, earthy smell after rain. Sure, I reflected on how I could’ve packed warmer socks, but honestly? It was the perfect reset. North Devon in autumn? I’m hooked. Can’t wait to go back.