I’ll never forget the drive up to Whitby last autumn – the leaves were turning that gorgeous coppery gold, carpeting the roads like nature’s own welcome mat. I’d set off from York early, buzzing with that holiday anticipation, dreaming of cosy nights in by the sea. But typical me, I took a wrong turn near Scarborough and ended up in a snaking queue of caravans crawling along the A171. Half an hour lost to a cheeky little traffic jam, and I arrived just as the afternoon light was dipping low, painting the sky in those dramatic purples and oranges that only Yorkshire does so well. Still, it only heightened the excitement – Whitby was waiting, all wrapped up in its seasonal charm.

Pulling up to the property, a charming terraced house right on Victoria Square, I was smitten straight away. Overlooking the harbour, it had that perfect Victorian vibe – bay windows framing the view, and inside, everything felt snug and inviting, like a hug from an old friend. The autumn air had a crisp edge that made stepping through the door feel extra special; the faint chill outside contrasted beautifully with the warmth radiating from the heaters we flicked on.

That first evening, with the season’s shorter days closing in early, we wandered down to the harbour as twilight settled. The boats bobbed gently, their lights twinkling against the darkening water, and the smell of smoked fish from the kippers wafting up was pure magic. We grabbed fish and chips from a hut by the swing bridge – greasy, golden perfection wrapped in paper, eaten on a bench while watching the tide roll in. Autumn’s mellow hues made it all feel like a painting; the abbey ruins up on the cliff stood silhouetted against the fading sun, evoking that Gothic Dracula vibe Whitby’s famous for, but softened by the golden hour glow.

The next day, the seasonal shift really shone through. Mornings were misty, with a gentle sea fret rolling in off the North Sea, cloaking the town in a soft, ethereal haze. It turned a stroll along the West Cliff into something mysterious and peaceful – no summer crowds, just us and the gulls wheeling overhead. We climbed the 199 steps to St Mary’s Church (pausing plenty for breath, mind – I’m not as fit as I like to think), and the view from up there was breathtaking: the estuary glittering below, framed by trees heavy with fiery foliage. That gentle self-reflection hit me then – amid the crunch of fallen leaves underfoot, I realised how these quieter months strip things back, letting you savour the simple joys without the bustle.

Evenings were all about that autumnal cosiness. Back at the house, we’d light the fire (well, the electric one, but it did the trick), crack open a bottle of mulled wine, and gaze out at the harbour lights twinkling like stars on water. One night, a sudden squall blew in – proper Whitby weather, lashing rain against the windows – which only made hunkering down with a board game and hot chocolate feel more indulgent. No beach lazing here; instead, it was bracing walks along the sands at low tide, kicking through seaweed and pondering the turning year.

By the time we packed up, autumn had woven its spell – Whitby in this season isn’t about sun-soaked days, but heartfelt moments wrapped in mist and mellow light. It’s left me yearning for next year’s trip already.