I’ll never forget the drive to our Shropshire hideaway last autumn – leaves turning that gorgeous coppery gold all along the A529, but wouldn’t you know it, I took a wrong turn just past Loggerheads and ended up splashing through a muddy farm track. Typical me, turning a scenic jaunt into a minor comedy of errors, with the satnav cheekily rerouting us past a field of bemused cows. Still, by the time we trundled up that final lane, hearts racing with that proper holiday buzz, the rolling pastures glowing in the late October sun made it all worthwhile.

Pulling into the yard of this semi-detached red brick farmhouse – a proper 17th-century gem, plonked right in the middle of the owners’ 50-acre working stock farm just three miles from Market Drayton – we were gobsmacked. The eco-friendly cottage looked like it had been plucked from a postcard, with breathtaking views across to their wildlife lake, all framed by those autumnal woods starting their fiery display. Stepping inside, the spacious open-plan living area hit us like a warm hug: that impressive central staircase splitting the space, a bespoke kitchen kitted out for proper feasts around the farmhouse table, and squashy leather sofas begging us to flop down and plot tomorrow’s adventures.

Autumn shaped every minute of our stay, turning the ordinary into magic. Mornings kicked off with mist rolling off the pastures like something out of a Brontë novel, the air crisp enough to pink your cheeks as we crunched through fallen leaves to spot the cows ambling back from milking. We’d brew up in that brilliant kitchen, windows steamed from the kettle, gazing at the lake where kingfishers darted like jewels against the turning foliage. One day, we wandered the farm tracks – wellies essential after overnight dew – picking blackberries heavy with that late-season sweetness, enough for a crumble that filled the cottage with cinnamon-scented bliss.

A highlight was nipping into Market Drayton for their autumn market, just a quick three-mile hop. Stalls groaning under pumpkins, squashes in every shade of harvest orange, and hot chestnuts roasting away – we loaded up on local cider and Shropshire cheese, laughing as I haggled (badly) over a bag of apples. Back at the cottage, evenings drew us to the sofas as the sun dipped early, painting the sky in bruised purples over the lake. We’d light the wood burner – eco-logs crackling away – and tuck into hearty stews, the kind that chase away the deepening chill.

There was this quiet moment one foggy dawn, standing on the half-landing gazing out, when I caught myself reflecting: in the rush of city life, I’d forgotten how autumn strips everything back, makes you notice the small stuff – a fox’s print in the mud, the way the light slants golden through the trees. It was gently humbling, a nudge that sometimes the best holidays are the ones that slow you right down.

We left with muddy boots, full bellies, and a promise to return next harvest. Shropshire in autumn? Pure, unfiltered joy.