I’d barely stepped off the train in Scarborough when the autumn drizzle decided to test my new waterproof jacket, and naturally it failed at the first hurdle. A sudden gust whipped my map clean out of my hands and sent it skittering across the wet platform like a soggy leaf. By the time I’d chased it down and stuffed the crumpled thing back into my pocket, my boots were soaked and my optimism slightly dampened, but the short walk to 23 Trafalgar Square still felt promising. The cottage sits just a few streets back from the South Bay, close enough that you can smell salt on the air even on a grey October afternoon.

Pushing open the blue door, I was met with that lovely, lived-in warmth that only older terraced houses seem to manage. The front room was already glowing from a couple of lamps, and the faint scent of wood smoke lingered from the little stove someone had thoughtfully lit earlier. Outside the sash windows, the light was fading fast; the sea looked slate-grey and restless, the sort of view that makes you want to stay indoors with a mug of tea rather than battle the wind along the promenade. I dropped my bag, peeled off the soggy socks, and padded straight into the compact kitchen where a basket of local biscuits had been left on the counter. Typical Scarborough welcome: practical, slightly sweet, and exactly what you need after a journey.

That first evening set the tone for the whole stay. With the evenings drawing in so quickly now, there was no guilt about not rushing out again. Instead I curled up on the sofa with a blanket, listening to the occasional burst of laughter from the pub on the corner and the steady hush of waves just beyond the rooftops. The next morning brought a break in the clouds, so I wandered down to the beach before breakfast. The sand was firm from the tide, scattered with shells polished by the season’s rougher seas, and a few hardy dog-walkers nodded good morning as they passed. It felt properly autumnal: crisp air, empty stretches of shore, and that quiet satisfaction of having the place almost to myself.

By the third day the pattern felt comforting rather than limiting. Mornings were for bracing walks along the Marine Drive, where the wind tugged at my scarf and turned my cheeks pink, and afternoons were for retreating to the cottage with a book and the occasional glance out at the changing sky. Even the little courtyard at the back, usually a sun-trap in summer, had taken on a cosier mood; a pot of late chrysanthemums still bravely flowering beside the bench made me smile at their determination. I caught myself thinking how rarely I slow down like this at home, how the shorter days and cooler weather had nudged me into noticing small comforts I’d normally overlook.

On the last morning, standing at the window with a final cup of tea, I watched a weak sun break through and turn the wet pavements briefly silver. The mishap with the map already felt like part of the story rather than a bother, and leaving the cottage key on the table came with a quiet sense of gratitude. Scarborough in shoulder season may not offer endless sunshine, but it gave me exactly the gentle reset I hadn’t realised I needed.