I’ll never forget the drive up to Whitby last autumn – the leaves were turning that gorgeous coppery gold, carpeting the moors like someone had scattered a million pound coins. Me and the family piled into the car from Leeds, kids buzzing in the back with crisps and iPads, but about halfway there, disaster struck: a rogue pheasant decided to play chicken with our windscreen. Thump! Feathers everywhere, heart in my mouth, and the little ones screaming like it was the end of days. Pulled over, checked the damage (just a crack and some bird remorse), and carried on, laughing it off as our official holiday mishap. By the time we crested the hill and spotted the sea, all was forgiven – that first glimpse of Whitby’s cliffs glowing in the weak October sun had us grinning like idiots.

Anticipation built as we wound down towards the southern side of the River Esk, the air already crisp with that salty tang mixed with woodsmoke from chimneys. Five minutes from the bustling town centre, we pulled up to this cracking contemporary end-terrace – perfect spot for our group of four. Up a few steps, and blimey, we were hit with the cosiest welcome: stylish living/dining room with massive sofas begging us to flop down, a Smart TV flickering invitingly, and a dining table ready for plotting our days. First impressions? Spot on. It felt like instant home, especially with autumn’s early dusk drawing in, making those big windows frame the fading light like a painting.

The season shaped everything, didn’t it? No sweaty summer crowds clogging the piers; instead, Whitby wrapped us in that mellow shoulder-season magic. Mornings started with steaming mugs of tea on the sofa, watching mist roll off the Esk while the kids planned beachcombing at Tate Hill. We wandered into town – just a hop away – for fish and chips wrapped in yesterday’s news, the batter extra crunchy in the chill wind. Autumn’s tides gifted us endless pebble hunts on the West Cliff beach, pockets bulging with treasures, and the swing bridge over the river felt like our secret shortcut to the abbey steps. That climb up 199 steps to the ruins? Pure highlight, leaves crunching underfoot, the North Sea roaring below, and panoramic views that stopped us in our tracks. We picnicked up there one blustery afternoon, huddled against the wind, pretending we were smugglers spying on the horizon.

Evenings were pure hygge, Whitby-style. Back at the house, we’d hunker down as rain pattered the windows – proper Yorkshire drizzle that turned the streets shiny. Board games around the dining table, telly on low with a roaring log fire vibe (central heating did the trick), and takeaways from the chippy down the road. One night, we caught the Halloween ghost walk from the town centre; spooky tales of Captain Cook and shipwrecks had the kids wide-eyed, perfect for the witchy autumn moon hanging low.

Reflecting on it now, that pheasant kerfuffle was a blessing in disguise – knocked any perfection expectations right out. Autumn Whitby isn’t about sunbathing; it’s slower, deeper, with fewer folk and more space to breathe. The property nailed it as our cosy base, letting the season’s moody beauty seep in. If you’re chasing that golden glow without the hordes, go now – you won’t regret it.