I’ll never forget the drive down to Somerset last autumn – leaves turning that gorgeous coppery gold all along the A303, but of course, I managed to hit a bit of a snag just past Stonehenge. Some cheeky diversion sign sent me looping through a muddy farm track, and my little hatchback ended up with tyres caked in the stuff. Laughed it off in the end, though – nothing like a daft detour to build the holiday buzz. By the time I crested the hill towards Somerton, the late October sun was dipping low, painting the fields in this warm, hazy glow that had me grinning ear to ear. Proper first impressions, that.

Pulling up to the lodge felt like stepping into a cosy postcard. It’s one of those classic self-catering spots – wooden-clad with a pitched roof, all nestled in its own quiet pocket of woodland, just a stone’s throw from the Levels. The anticipation had been building all week, imagining log fires and crunchy walks, and it didn’t disappoint. Unpacked in minutes, kettle on, and straight out to breathe in that crisp, leaf-mulchy air. Autumn in Somerset is magic, isn’t it? The season turns everything softer, slower – no summer crowds, just you, the rustling trees, and that faint chill that makes a hot cuppa taste like nectar.

First full day, we wandered the nearby paths around Somerton, boots squelching through fallen leaves that carpeted everything like a giant, soggy quilt. The air was sharp with that earthy, damp scent you only get when the year’s winding down – woodsmoke from chimneys mingling with the last of the blackberries we picked (slightly past their best, mind, but stubborn handfuls jammed into a crumble later). Popped into the high street for pasties from the bakery, all steamy and perfect for warming chilled fingers. No rushing about; autumn dictates its own gentle rhythm here, with mist rolling in over the fields by midday, turning the whole landscape into a watercolour painting.

Evenings were the real treat. That wood-burning stove became our best mate – crackling away as dusk fell early, shadows lengthening across the garden where dew was already settling by tea time. We’d hunker down with board games, the windows fogging up from our laughter and the bubbling stew on the hob. One night, staring into the flames, I had a proper moment of reflection: work’s been manic lately, deadlines piling up like those leaves outside, but here, with the season stripping everything back to basics, I realised how much I needed this reset. No signals half the time, just presence. Felt a bit soppy, but hey, holidays are for that.

Ventured to the edges of the Levels one afternoon – those vast, flat expanses all golden-reedy under a vast sky, with starlings wheeling about in those mesmerising murmurations as the light faded. Picked up local cider from a farm shop en route, sharp and autumnal, perfect with cheese from the market. The cooler weather meant layers and thermoses, but it wrapped the whole trip in this comforting hug – fewer tourists, more intimacy with the place.

Packed up on the last morning, leaves swirling in the wind like confetti, already plotting a return. Somerset in autumn? It’s not just a holiday; it’s a season stealing your heart.