I’ll never forget the drive down to Somerset last autumn – the leaves were just starting to turn that glorious coppery gold, carpeting the roads like nature’s own welcome mat. I’d set off from Bristol early, fancying a leisurely two-hour jaunt through the Mendips, but oh no, I managed to take a wrong turn near Wells and ended up in a muddy farm lane, tyres spinning like I was auditioning for a rally. A quick reverse and a sheepish wave to the bemused farmer later, I was back on track, heart racing but laughing at my daft navigation skills. By the time I crested the hill towards Shepton Mallet, the late October sun was dipping low, painting the valleys in that soft, hazy light that makes everything feel like a watercolour painting.

Pulling up to the property, my first impressions were spot on – a cosy detached bungalow with a welcoming vibe, all low-slung and nestled into the hillside like it belonged there. The anticipation had been building all week; I’d pictured crisp walks and log fires, and stepping inside confirmed it wouldn’t disappoint. The air had that proper autumn nip, perfect for shrugging on a jumper and brewing a pot of tea while gazing out at the rolling fields turning shades of amber.

The season really dictated every brilliant bit of it. Mornings kicked off with mist clinging to the valleys, so I’d wander down to the nearby Cheesefest trail – Shepton’s got this fab little network of paths winding through orchards heavy with the last of the apples. Picking a few windfalls (with permission, mind), I’d crunch them on the spot, their tartness cutting through the damp air like a wake-up call. One day, I timed it for the Shepton Mallet Farmers’ Market, just a short stroll away. Autumn’s bounty was everywhere: pumpkins piled high, squashes in every wonky shape, and hot cider steaming from vats. I loaded up on local brie and chutneys, chuckling to myself as I haggled playfully with the stallholders – felt like I was in a proper village fête.

Afternoons were for gentle rambles around the Mendip Hills, where the bracken was rustling russet and the air smelled of wet earth and decaying leaves. I’d puff up to a viewpoint overlooking the Somerset Levels, watching the fog roll in like a slow-motion ghost, then head back as the light faded early, that short October day wrapping up by four. Evenings in the bungalow were pure bliss – firing up the wood burner (logs stacked ready, thank goodness), simmering a stew with market veg, and curling up with a book. The chill outside made the warmth inside feel extra special, like a hug from an old mate.

There was a quiet moment one evening, sat by the window with the hills fading to black, when I caught myself reflecting on how rushed life back home feels. Autumn here slowed me right down, reminding me it’s fine to just breathe and let the season do the talking. No regrets about that muddy detour; it was the perfect start to a holiday shaped entirely by the mellow magic of fall in Somerset. I’m already plotting a return next year.