I’ll never forget the drive down to Herefordshire last autumn – the leaves were turning that perfect coppery gold, carpeting the lanes like nature’s own welcome mat. Me and the missus piled into the car from Birmingham, Spotify blasting some folky tunes to match the mood, but about halfway there, disaster struck: a rogue pheasant decided to play chicken with our bumper. Heart in my mouth, we swerved, laughed it off with shaky hands, and carried on, the crisp October air rushing through the windows smelling of damp earth and promise. By the time we neared Hereford, just four miles from our spot, the anticipation was buzzing – visions of cosy nights in, hot mugs of tea, and those rolling hills wrapped in mist.

Pulling up to the private estate felt like stumbling into a hug from an old mate. It’s a reverse-level new build, all modern charm with a cheeky nod to countryside cosiness, and blimey, those magnificent views over the Lugg Valley hit us straight away. We stepped in, dashed up to the first-floor open-plan living space, and proper melted into the plush sofas. The woodburning stove was already flickering away (they’d lit it for us – what legends), chasing off the autumn chill that sneaks into your bones this time of year. The contemporary kitchen island became our command centre, stocked with everything to whip up a hearty stew – carrots from a local farm shop, of course – and that dishwasher was a godsend after lazy suppers.

Autumn shaped every minute of it, turning a simple holiday let into pure magic. Mornings, we’d wake to fog lifting off the fields, grab binoculars for spotting deer in the meadows below, then crunch through leaf-strewn paths on the estate. One day, we wandered all of two miles to the River Lugg, kicking through golden drifts while the weak sun filtered through, painting everything in that soft, slanting light. Picnics by the water were a highlight – cheese from a nearby dairy, apple cider from Hereford’s orchards (it’s peak season, after all), and the air so fresh it made city lungs tingle. Evenings, we’d sink into the hot tub under a sky bruised with sunset oranges, steam rising like fairy smoke, stars popping out early in the clear, cold nights. No light pollution here – just the Milky Way putting on a show.

We ventured to a cider mill just down the road, pressing our own batch amid the scent of fermenting fruit, a proper Herefordshire rite that tastes even better when the harvest is in full swing. Light humour came when I slipped on wet leaves trying to impress with a woodpile stack – ended up looking like a tipsy scarecrow, but it had us in stitches by the stove with mulled wine. Reflecting on it now, that week nudged me to slow down; autumn’s mellow pace, with its fading light and earthy scents, reminded me life’s not about rushing, but savouring the quiet bits. Herefordshire in October? It’s like the countryside whispering, “Stay a while.” We didn’t need telling twice.