I’ll never forget the drive down to St Ives last autumn – the leaves turning that gorgeous coppery gold along the A30, but of course, I managed to hit a bit of a snag just past Bodmin. Some cheeky diversion meant we crawled along tiny lanes for what felt like hours, with mist rolling in off Bodmin Moor like it was auditioning for a Dracula remake. By the time we crested the hill into Carbis Bay, I was starving and slightly frazzled, but oh, the anticipation! That first glimpse of the sea, all steely grey under brooding clouds, had my heart leaping. Autumn in Cornwall is magic, isn’t it? No summer crowds, just that crisp, invigorating bite in the air promising cosy evenings ahead.

Pulling up to the holiday property, we were bowled over straight away. It’s beautifully styled and superbly well-equipped, striking just the right balance between airy elegance and home-from-home convenience. Perfect for hunkering down as the days shorten. We dumped the bags and cracked open a bottle of red while the wind whipped the waves below – pure bliss after the road drama.

The season really made it special. Mornings started with that golden low light flooding the windows, turning breakfast into an event. We’d wander down to Carbis Bay Beach, boots crunching on damp sand left by the high tide. No battling for space; just us, a few dog-walkers, and seals bobbing offshore like nosy neighbours. One day, we timed it for low tide and poked around the rock pools – the autumn swell had churned up all sorts, tiny crabs scuttling in the emerald shallows. I felt like a kid again, though I did yelp when a wave snuck up and soaked my jeans. Laughable now, but it had me pondering how we grown-ups forget to embrace the soggy spontaneity of it all.

Afternoons were for ambling into St Ives, all of five minutes away. The harbour was a dream in the slanting light, fishing boats creaking gently, and the scent of frying chips battling the briny tang. We grabbed pasties from a no-frills spot – proper job, stuffed with proper chunks of meat – and scoffed them on the beach wall, watching gulls wheel against scudding clouds. Porthmeor Beach was our go-to for dramatic skies; those massive Atlantic rollers crashing in, foam flecked with sea thrift still clinging on from summer. No swimming for us soft northerners in October, mind – the water was Baltic! Instead, we rugged up and took the coast path to Porthminster, leaves swirling like confetti, stopping for tea in a little café where the sconces came with extra jam because, well, Cornwall.

Evenings back at the property were the highlight. As dusk fell early – proper pitch black by half-five – we lit the fire (thank goodness for that well-stocked log basket) and cooked up feasts with local bits from the St Ives market: squash from nearby farms, smoked mackerel that tasted of the sea itself. One night, a storm rolled in, rain lashing the windows, and we played board games till late, laughing over daft moves. It hit me then, mid-ludo disaster, how rare it is to properly switch off. Work emails forgotten, just the rhythm of the waves and family chatter. Autumn stripped it all back to what matters – warmth inside against the wild outside.

Short days meant we made the most of every ray, but there’s something restorative about that early nightfall, isn’t there? We left feeling utterly recharged, already plotting a return. If you’re after a St Ives escape where the season does the heavy lifting, this is it.