I’ll never forget the drive down to Allerford last autumn – the leaves were turning that perfect coppery gold, carpeting the lanes like someone had spilled a pint of ale over the moors. It was mid-October, you see, and I’d been buzzing with anticipation for weeks, dreaming of crisp walks and cosy evenings by the fire. My partner, little ones, and our scruffy terrier, Monty, piled into the car from Bristol, sat-nav promising an hour and a half. But oh no, typical me – I took a wrong turn near Minehead, ending up on some narrow track that had us inching past sheep eyeballing us like we’d gatecrashed their party. Half an hour late, hearts sinking a bit, but laughing about it now.

Pulling up to this neat two-bedroom apartment, surrounded by the beautiful moors of Exmoor, overlooking a charming packhorse bridge and village stream, it was love at first sight. Perfect for our small family plus Monty, it felt like a hug from the countryside itself. The autumn light was magical, slanting low over the hills, turning the stream into a ribbon of molten silver. We dumped the bags and cracked open a flask of tea, just soaking it in – no traffic hum, just the rustle of leaves and distant bleats.

That first afternoon set the tone: a gentle stroll across the packhorse bridge, the air sharp with that earthy, damp scent you only get in Somerset this time of year. The moors were alive with bracken in fiery reds and oranges, and we spotted a few red deer grazing in the distance, their antlers silhouetted against the fading sun. Monty went mental, nose to the ground, chasing phantom scents. We didn’t push it far – just a loop back through the village, kicking through piles of fallen leaves that crunched like cornflakes underfoot. Back at the flat, we lit the wood burner (bliss!), rustled up some pasties from the local shop in Porlock – only a mile away – and watched the mist roll in over the stream as dusk fell early, like nature hitting the dimmer switch.

The season shaped every bit of it, really. Mornings started with frost sparkling on the grass, urging us out for proper walks up to Selworthy’s wooded combe, where the trees dripped with dew and the paths were carpeted in mossy softness. No summer crowds, just us and the wind whispering through the gorse. One day, we ambled to Porlock Weir, the tide out revealing pebbly expanses, and gathered driftwood for the fire while the kids skimmed stones. Evenings were pure hygge – steaming mugs of hot chocolate, board games by the heater, listening to the stream gurgle below as stars popped out overhead, sharper than I’ve seen in years without the summer haze.

Of course, there was that moment of gentle self-reflection on our last evening, sat on the balcony with a GandT, watching leaves spiral down like confetti. I realised how rare it is to properly unplug – no screens, just the rhythm of the seasons slowing us down. Autumn here stripped it all back, reminding me life’s best bits are the simple ones: family, dog walks, and a cracking view. We left with muddy boots and fuller hearts, already plotting a return for next year’s golden glow. If you’re after a proper escape, this corner of Exmoor in the fall is pure magic.