I’ll never forget the drive down to Somerset last autumn – the leaves were turning that perfect coppery gold, carpeting the roads like nature’s own welcome mat. I’d piled the car with wellies and a Thermos of tea, buzzing with that pre-holiday anticipation, imagining cosy evenings by a fire after days of crisp walks. But typical me, about halfway there, I took a wrong turn near Glastonbury thanks to a dodgy sat-nav signal, and ended up splashing through a massive puddle that drenched the windscreen. Cue a frantic five minutes with the wipers on full whack, laughing at myself for not printing directions like a proper Luddite. Still, we arrived in one piece, and oh, what a first impression – the autumn sun dipping low over the Somerset Levels, casting everything in this magical, honeyed glow that made my heart skip.

The property was a charming converted sail loft right by the water in Bridgwater, all nautical vibes with big windows framing the river and a quirky, shipshape layout that felt like stepping onto a gentle houseboat. From the moment we unloaded, it was clear the season was going to steal the show. That first evening, as the light faded fast – proper short days, they were – we cracked open a bottle of local cider and watched the mist roll in off the Levels, turning the view into a proper Turner painting. It was chilly enough to light the wood burner straight away, and the crackle mixed with the sound of water lapping outside was pure bliss.

Next morning, we headed out for a stomp around the nearby RSPB Ham Wall reserve, just a short drive away. Autumn’s the best time for it – the reed beds alive with migrating birds, their calls echoing as we crunched through fallen leaves. I spotted my first bittern, dead chuffed, though I nearly tripped over a root in excitement. Lunch was pasties from a Bridgwater bakery, eaten on a bench with steam rising in the crisp air, hands wrapped around hot mugs of tea to fend off the nip. Back at the loft, the afternoon light slanted through those windows, picking out every detail, and we pottered about, brewing tea and flicking through dog-eared books on local wildlife.

One evening, we wandered down to the river path at dusk, the air thick with that earthy, damp scent you only get in Somerset come October. Fireworks from some village bonfire night early starter lit up the sky unexpectedly – brilliant timing, though I jumped a mile, spilling my drink. It had me reflecting, stood there with the chill nipping my cheeks: holidays like this remind you to slow down, don’t they? In summer it’d be all barbecues and boats, but autumn wrapped it in this quiet magic, forcing you to savour the simple stuff – a warm glow inside against the darkening world outside.

We even nipped to the local farm shop for pumpkin soup and fudge, the stalls groaning under seasonal bounty. Mornings started with frost on the grass, sparkling like diamonds, and by our last day, the trees were shedding proper now, papering the garden path. Leaving felt bittersweet; that seasonal hush had made it feel like our own little world. If you’re after a getaway that lets autumn do the heavy lifting, Somerset’s Levels in a waterside spot like this is unbeatable. Proper restorative.