I’ll never forget the drive down to Weymouth last autumn – the leaves turning that gorgeous coppery gold along the A354, but oh, what a faff when we got a puncture just past Dorchester. There I was, in my wellies, trying to wrestle the spare tyre on while the kids moaned about the cold wind whipping off the sea. Half an hour later, we were back on track, hearts racing a bit, but buzzing with that proper holiday anticipation. As we rolled into town, the harbour lights twinkling against the fading sun, I could already smell the chip shops and feel the promise of a cosy break.

Pulling up to our apartment – a smart, family-friendly spot right in the thick of it, less than a hundred yards from the pub and a stone’s throw from shops, cafes, the quay, and that fab sandy beach – my first impressions were spot on. It welcomed our well-behaved dog with open arms, and with a parking permit sorted, we dumped the bags and stepped inside to two cracking bedrooms: a king-size for me and the missus, and a twin for the little ones, all done up tastefully for a proper kip after days out.

Autumn in Weymouth is pure magic, isn’t it? None of that summer scrum – just crisp mornings where the sea mist rolls in like a soft blanket, turning the harbour into a watercolour painting. We’d wander down to the quay first thing, mugs of tea in hand from the apartment’s kitchen, watching the fishing boats bob and the gulls squawking for scraps. The beach, a mere skip away, was ours for the taking; we built epic sandcastles before the tide nipped in, the kids’ cheeks rosy from the bracing breeze. One day, we crunched through piles of fallen leaves along the esplanade, dodging the odd jogger, then warmed up with cream teas at a harbour cafe – scones still warm, clotted cream melting just right. The seasonal shift made everything feel more vivid; sunsets lingered in fiery oranges over Portland Bill, close enough for a quick scoot if we fancied, but we mostly stuck local, savouring the quiet.

There was this hilarious moment when our dog decided the pub’s beer garden was his personal kingdom – he plonked himself under a table, eyeing punters’ crisps, while we pretended he was invisible. Laughed till we cried, we did. Evenings back at the apartment were bliss: firing up the oven for a pie and mash supper, windows cracked to let in that salty air, board games by lamplight as rain pattered gently outside. It got me reflecting, you know – in the rush of everyday life, we forget how a simple change of season can recharge the batteries. No queues at Nothe Fort, just us exploring its ramparts with the wind tousling our hair, or a gentle stroll to spot seals off the quay, their heads popping up like cheeky locals.

By the end of the week, with cheeks wind-bitten and souls full, we didn’t want to leave. Weymouth in autumn? It’s like the town whispers, “Slow down, breathe it in.” Best holiday reset ever.