I’ll never forget the drive down to Church Stretton last autumn – the leaves were turning that perfect coppery gold, carpeting the Shropshire lanes like someone had scattered a giant bag of toffee pennies. Me and the family piled into the car from Birmingham, kids buzzing in the back with crisps and iPads, while I fiddled with the sat-nav, convinced I knew a shortcut. Big mistake. We ended up on some narrow track that turned into a mud-slicked single file, courtesy of the recent rains, and spent 20 minutes reversing into a hedge while a farmer in a Land Rover chuckled from afar. Classic me, always thinking I’m Bear Grylls until I’m not.

By the time we arrived, though, all was forgiven. Pulling into the shared courtyard on the edge of town, the semi-detached barn conversion looked like it had been waiting just for us – cosy and inviting, with that autumnal light filtering through the trees, making everything glow. First impressions? Spot on. The place felt like a warm hug after the chill nip in the air, perfect for hunkering down as the days drew in.

Autumn in Shropshire is pure magic, isn’t it? We timed it just right for that shoulder season sweet spot – not too crowded, but the countryside was putting on its annual fireworks show. Mornings started with steaming mugs of tea on the patio, watching mist roll off the Long Mynd like a sleepy dragon stirring. The heather was fading to purples and browns, but the bracken glowed russet, and the air had that crisp, apple-scented bite that makes you feel alive. We laced up our boots for walks straight from the door – up to the Mynd’s burrows, where the wind whipped our cheeks pink and the views stretched forever under skies that flipped from blue to brooding in minutes. One afternoon, we chased a rainbow after a sudden shower, ending up soaked but laughing at a picnic of cheese rolls and flask coffee overlooking Town Brook.

Evenings were the real treat, shaped by that early dusk. We’d potter into Church Stretton for a mooch around the high street – the greengrocers piled high with seasonal squash and Bramleys, bakers wafting pasties that called your name. Back at the barn, we’d light the fire (bliss after a blustery hike), rustle up a stew with local spuds and whatever we’d foraged like blackberries from the lanes. Board games by candlelight when the power flickered – nothing says family bonding like Monopoly arguments under the glow of pumpkin lanterns from the village Halloween do.

I had a quiet moment one night, staring out at the courtyard leaves swirling in the wind, reflecting on how this time of year strips things back. No summer frenzy, just us slowing down with nature’s mellow palette. It reminded me to savour the simple stuff more – the crackle of logs, the kids’ rosy cheeks, that contented ache after a good tramp. Shropshire in autumn? It’s not just a holiday; it’s a reset button. We’re already plotting a return for next year’s fiery show.