I’ll never forget the drive up to Scarborough last autumn – the leaves were turning that gorgeous coppery gold, carpeting the roads like nature’s own welcome mat. I’d been buzzing with anticipation all week, dreaming of crisp sea air and cosy nights in after bracing walks. But typical me, I took a wrong turn just outside Whitby, ending up on some winding moorland lane that had me white-knuckling the steering wheel as the satnav threw a hissy fit. Half an hour later, heart still thumping, I finally rolled into Southcliffe, Scarborough’s posh end of town, and blimey, what a first impression. The elegant Victorian terraces glowed in the low October sun, and there was my home for the week: a superb first-floor apartment in one of those beauties, just begging to be explored.

Stepping inside felt like slipping into a warm hug after the chill outside. It’s beautifully renovated, all light and spacious with high ceilings that make you feel like royalty. The open-plan living area’s a dream – modern kitchen for knocking up hearty stews, a dining spot in the massive bay window overlooking the leafy street, and plush seating perfect for sinking into as the afternoon sun streams in. Autumn’s softer light turned it magical, gilding everything in that mellow glow. I dumped my bags and cracked open a window; the seafront’s only a few minutes’ stroll away, and you could already hear the waves whispering promises of adventures.

That first evening, with the days drawing in early, I wandered down to the promenade as twilight hit. Scarborough’s beach was a stunner in October – wide and empty, the tide pulling back to reveal glistening sands littered with seaweed and the odd crab shell. No summer crowds, just me, a thermos of tea, and the North Sea putting on a moody show, all steely greys and frothy whites under a sky streaked with pink. I chuckled to myself, thinking how I’d have hated the holiday hordes; this quiet season suited my introverted soul down to the ground.

The next few days were pure seasonal bliss. Mornings started with frosty rambles along the cliffs – South Cliff’s paths wind right to the edge, with bracing winds whipping up that proper Yorkshire tang. I’d spot seals bobbing offshore, and the bracken on the nearby moors was ablaze in russet hues, so close you could almost touch the North York Moors National Park without straying far. Lunch was always fish and chips from a hut by the harbour, wrapped in paper that steamed up in the chill, eaten on a bench watching the world go by. Evenings back at the flat were for slow-cooked casseroles in that slick kitchen, then curling up with a book as rain pattered the windows – autumn’s gift of hygge without the Scandi pretensions.

One afternoon, gazing out that bay window at the swirling leaves, I had a proper moment of reflection. Life’s been a rush lately, but here, with the season stripping things back to basics – fewer people, bolder colours, that honest coastal bite – I felt properly grounded. No distractions, just me and the rhythm of the tides. Scarborough in autumn? It’s not just a holiday; it’s a reset button. If you’re after couples’ bliss without the bustle, go now, before winter bites. I’m already plotting a return.