I’ll never forget the drive down to Somerset last autumn – the leaves were just turning that gorgeous coppery gold, carpeting the roads like nature’s own welcome mat. Me and the missus piled into the car from Bristol, sat-nav chirping away, but wouldn’t you know it, we hit a massive flock of sheep blocking the lane just past Glastonbury. Proper Somerset moment, that – the farmer waving us round with a grin while his flock dawdled like they owned the place. Took an extra half hour, but by the time we trundled into Bridgwater, the anticipation was buzzing. I’d been dreaming of crisp mornings and misty walks, and as we pulled up to this cosy little holiday cottage – all low-slung and tucked into the Levels – my heart did a little flip. First impressions? Spot on. The garden sloped gently towards the moors, already shimmering with that early October dew.

Settling in felt like slipping into a favourite jumper. Autumn in Somerset turns the Somerset Levels into a painter’s dream – flat expanses of reed beds glowing russet under weak sun, with the odd heron stabbing at the water like it’s auditioning for a wildlife doc. We timed it perfectly; the harvest was in, fields stripped bare, leaving this vast, open hush that made every breath feel alive. Mornings started with steaming mugs of tea on the patio, watching fog lift off the rhines – those drainage channels that keep the Levels from turning into a lake. It’s magical how the season paints everything in soft ochres and umbers; even the air smells different, all damp earth and fallen apples.

We didn’t stray far – no need, really. A gentle stroll along the nearby paths took us to the River Parrett, where the willows were shedding leaves like confetti. One afternoon, we wandered to the edge of Sedgemoor, boots squelching in the peaty soil, and spotted a fox darting through the brambles – proper wild Somerset encounter. Lunch was pasties from the local shop in Bridgwater, devoured on a bench with views across the mist-shrouded flats. Evenings drew us back to the cottage for log fires (the chill nipping at your fingers by dusk) and hearty stews bubbling away. I had this daft idea of birdwatching, armed with a tatty guidebook, but mostly I just sat there, binoculars dangling, mesmerised by skeins of geese arrowing south against the bruised sky. Hilarious, really – me, the city lad, pretending to be David Attenborough.

There was a quiet moment one evening, staring out as the sun dipped low, turning the Levels into a sea of amber. Made me reflect on how we rush about, doesn’t it? Autumn here slows you right down, strips away the clutter. No screens, just the rustle of wind in the rushes and the faint call of lapwings. The season shaped every bit of it – from the cosy glow inside against the gathering dark, to the way the light lingered just long enough for one last walk. We left feeling utterly refreshed, promising to return next year when the frost rims the reeds. Somerset in autumn? It’s got my heart.