I’ll never forget the drive down to Somerset last autumn – leaves turning that gorgeous coppery gold all along the A39, but of course, I managed to hit a massive puddle just outside Minehead, soaking the windscreen and turning my careful packing into a soggy mess. Typical me, always turning a scenic journey into a minor adventure. Still, as I crested the hill into the Avill Valley between Dunster and Timberscombe, right in the heart of Exmoor National Park, the anticipation bubbled up. This was proper countryside escape territory, and with the season’s crisp edge in the air, I couldn’t wait to hole up in my cosy spot.

Pulling up to the complex of charming country cottages, I was smitten straight away. Mine was a neat little apartment perfect for a solo jaunt like this – one double bedroom, all tucked away in this stunning valley setting. The first impressions were spot on: that golden afternoon light filtering through the trees, the faint mist rolling in from the moors, making everything feel like a page from a Brontë novel. Autumn had dressed the place up beautifully, with bracken glowing russet and the odd splash of berry red hedging the lanes.

The season really steered the whole trip. Mornings started with that invigorating chill, perfect for wrapping up in a scarf and heading out for a brisk walk along the river path towards Dunster – no more than a couple of miles, but it felt worlds away from city hustle. The woods were alive with the rustle of falling leaves, and I’d crunch my way to spot the deer nibbling on the undergrowth, their coats thickening up for winter. One day, I timed it just right for the low sun piercing the canopy, turning the valley into a proper fairy-tale scene. Back at the cottage, I’d light the fire (thank goodness for that wood burner) and sip tea while watching the light fade early – around 4pm, mind you, which had me chuckling at how quickly I’d adapted to “pensioner o’clock.”

Evenings were pure autumn bliss. I pottered over to Timberscombe’s tiny pub, just a short stroll away, for a pint of local ale and a pie that warmed you from the inside out. The air had that smoky, bonfire scent everywhere, and one night there was even a harvest moon rising fat and orange over the hills – I stood outside the cottage door, mesmerised, feeling properly small in the best way. Food-wise, it was all about seasonal treats: foraged blackberries (slightly past their best but still scrummy in a crumble) and squash from a nearby farm shop. No fancy restaurants needed; the simple stuff tasted better with that nip in the air.

Of course, there was a moment of gentle reflection one drizzly afternoon, curled up with a book as the rain pattered the windows. I realised I’d been so caught up in work back home that I’d forgotten how restorative these quiet, seasonal shifts are – the way autumn strips things back, makes you appreciate the hygge of a warm bed and a hot cuppa. It was a nudge to do this more often, mishaps and all. By the time I packed up, with frost nipping at the car tyres, I was already plotting a return for next year’s foliage frenzy. Somerset in autumn? Absolute gold.