I’ll never forget the drive down to Shropshire last autumn – leaves turning that gorgeous coppery gold, carpeting the lanes like nature’s own welcome mat. Me and the family piled into the car from Birmingham, kids buzzing in the back with crisps and iPads, while I navigated those winding Shropshire Hills roads. About halfway, disaster struck: a rogue pheasant decided to play chicken with our bumper, sending us into a frantic pull-over. Heart racing, we checked the car (fine), the bird (off like a shot), and carried on laughing about it. That little mishap only ramped up the anticipation – by the time we crested the final hill towards Clun Valley, I was grinning ear to ear at the misty valleys glowing in the low October sun.

Pulling up to the house near Clun – just two miles from the village – we were gobsmacked. It’s this beautifully finished large place, perfect for our two-family gang of eight, tucked into the heart of the Shropshire Hills. First impressions? Pure luxury without the pretension: we tumbled out, bags flying, straight into the warmth of the ground floor kitchen with its massive breakfast bar, all kitted out for feeding the hordes. The dining room flows into a conservatory with seating for everyone, and there’s even a cosy TV room with a whopping wall-mounted telly and a three-seater recliner sofa for film nights. Autumn’s golden light poured through the windows, making it feel like we’d stepped into a hug.

The season shaped everything, didn’t it? Those crisp mornings had us layering up for walks along the River Clun, kicking through crunchy leaves and spotting deer in the woods – the hills all russet and amber, air so fresh it stung your lungs in the best way. We wandered into Clun itself, just a short drive, for a mooch around the medieval castle ruins shrouded in foggy mist, pretending we were time travellers. The high street’s got that proper village charm: we grabbed pasties from the bakery, steam rising like little bonfires, and watched the world go by from a bench. Back at the house, afternoons blurred into cosiness – wood burner crackling (we’d stocked up on logs from the local farm shop), kids sprawled in the TV room with hot chocolate, while us adults rustled up feasts in the kitchen. One night, we did a massive roast, laughter echoing as the conservatory filled with the smell of sage and onion stuffing, rain pattering softly outside.

Evenings were magic in that autumnal gloaming. We’d pile onto the recliner for a scary film, blankets everywhere, pausing to peer out at the starry skies – so clear without city lights, Orion winking down. A gentle stroll to Bicton Lea’s nearby paths at dusk, torchlights bobbing, wrapped up against the chill, felt like stealing moments from a postcard.

Looking back, that trip was a right tonic. Amid the whirlwind of family life, those quiet Shropshire autumn days nudged me to slow down – savour the fleeting colours, the shared stories by the fire. Made me reflect on how daft it is to let seasons slip by unnoticed. If you’re after a proper getaway, chase those golden weeks here; it’ll recharge your soul.