I’ll never forget the drive down to North Devon last autumn – leaves turning that gorgeous rusty gold along the A39, but of course, I managed to pick the one weekend when Storm Callum decided to chuck it down. The windscreen wipers were working overtime, and just past Barnstaple, we hit a massive puddle that soaked the car behind us. I pulled over, mortified, waving apologies like a madman, but the driver just gave a thumbs-up and carried on. Typical me, turning a scenic journey into a minor drama.

By the time we crested the hill towards Mortehoe, the rain had eased into a dramatic drizzle, and there it was – this cracking house perched with killer views over the Atlantic. We’d been buzzing with anticipation all week, imagining cosy evenings by the fire, and the first impressions didn’t disappoint. Five comfy bedrooms for our lot of ten, ocean glimpses from nearly every window, and that sundeck calling our name come sunnier spells. It’s the sort of place built for families or mates, with space to sprawl out and a hot tub that promised autumnal bliss once we’d ditched the bags.

Autumn in North Devon is pure magic, isn’t it? No summer crowds clogging up Woolacombe Beach, just us and a handful of dog-walkers kicking through the damp sand. We wandered down there first thing – a ten-minute stroll along the South West Coast Path, boots squelching in the salty mud, gulls wheeling overhead against skies that shifted from brooding grey to fleeting blue. The sea was wild, waves crashing like they owned the place, but it felt invigorating rather than grim. I paused for a proper mooch at Baggy Point, watching the surf roll in; made me reflect on how I never slow down enough back home. This trip was my nudge to breathe deeper.

Evenings were the real treat, shaped by that crisp seasonal chill. We’d fire up the hot tub on the deck as the sun dipped low, steam rising into the twilight while sipping mulled cider – proper Devon scrumpy from a farm shop just up the road. Inside, it was all about hearty suppers: pasties from the village bakery in Mortehoe, washed down with local ales. One night, we played board games till late, rain pattering on the windows, and I couldn’t help chuckling at myself – usually glued to my phone, here I was properly unplugged, laughing till my sides hurt.

Days out stayed local, letting autumn dictate the pace. A blustery hike to Putsborough Sands, where the dunes glowed copper in the low light, and we foraged blackberries for a crumble. Another time, we rugged up for a clifftop ramble, spotting seals basking on the rocks below – nature’s own show, free and fierce. No need for the car; everything felt close, intimate. Sure, the weather kept us guessing – one morning misty, the next with that golden glow that makes you grateful for woolly jumpers.

Packing up on the last day, I felt that gentle pang of self-reflection: why don’t I chase these slower rhythms more often? North Devon in autumn wrapped us in its rugged embrace, turning a holiday into something soul-recharging. If you’re after seaside vibes without the hordes, time it for the fall – you won’t regret it.