I’ll never forget the drive down to St Ives last autumn – the leaves turning that gorgeous coppery gold along the A30, but oh, what a faff when we hit a cheeky traffic jam just past Bodmin. Some numpty in a campervan had decided it was the perfect spot for a picnic, and there we were, drumming our fingers on the steering wheel, me muttering about missing the best of the low tide at the beach. Still, by the time we wound our way into Carbis Bay, the late October sun was dipping low, painting everything in that soft, hazy light that makes Cornwall feel like a painting come to life. My heart lifted the second we pulled up – this was going to be proper autumn magic.

The place we’d booked was spot on for our big family gang: a luxury holiday home perfect for a large group or family looking to escape by the sea. Spacious, light-filled rooms with those massive windows framing the bay, and a vibe that said ‘kick back and forget the world’. First impressions? Blimey, we were grinning like idiots as we dumped the bags and cracked open a bottle of local Rattler cider on the balcony, watching the waves crash under a sky streaked with pink and orange. Autumn’s softer side was already wrapping us up – no blistering summer heat, just crisp air that made every breath feel alive.

We timed it brilliantly for the season. Mornings started with frosty walks along Carbis Bay Beach, toes crunching over damp sand littered with seaweed and the odd crab shell, the sea a moody slate grey that somehow looked more dramatic than any postcard blue. No crowds, mind – just us and a few dog walkers bundled in wax jackets, the wind whipping up just enough to pink your cheeks. We’d wander up to St Ives proper, barely a mile away, past the little Porthminster Beach where the tide pools shimmered like jewels in the weak sun. The town was a dream in autumn: galleries like Tate St Ives glowing with that golden light filtering through the windows, and Barbara Hepworth’s sculptures outside catching the misty drizzle just so. Picked up a pasty from Philps – steaming hot, proper Cornish, with the crust flaking everywhere – and scoffed it on a bench overlooking Porthmeor, where surfers in thick wetsuits bobbed like seals in the choppy swell.

Evenings were the best bit, shaped by that early darkness and the need for cosiness. We’d fire up the outdoor hot tub (brilliant for autumn chills), steam rising into the cool air as we gazed at the lights twinkling across the bay. Inside, board games by the fire, kids sprawled with hot chocolate, while I sneaked a moment alone on the terrace, cupping my mug and thinking how the year’s stresses had melted away. Autumn forced us to slow down – no manic sun-chasing, just proper lingering, savouring the rustle of fallen leaves on our coastal paths and the salty tang sharpened by the chill. One rainy afternoon, we holed up with a jigsaw of the coastline, laughing at my rubbish corner pieces, and I caught myself reflecting: when did I last feel this unhurried? This simple joy in a stormy sea view and family chatter?

By the time we packed up, windswept and rosy-cheeked, I was already plotting a return. Autumn in St Ives isn’t just a holiday; it’s a reset button, all wrapped in that bracing, beautiful Cornish seasonal hug.