I’ll never forget the drive up to York last autumn – the leaves were turning that perfect mix of gold and copper, carpeting the roads like nature’s own welcome mat. I’d set off from Leeds early, buzzing with that holiday anticipation, imagining cosy evenings by a fire after days of exploring. But typical me, I took a wrong turn near Tadcaster, ending up on some narrow lane with tractors blocking the way. Twenty minutes of faffing about with the satnav later, I was back on track, laughing at my own daftness. Still, it only added to the excitement – by the time I rolled into the city, the late afternoon sun was dipping low, casting this magical glow over the ancient walls.

Pulling up to the cottage, my first impressions were spot on. It’s one of those charming terraced spots tucked just outside the city centre, all welcoming with its classic York vibe – think flower baskets still blooming defiantly against the crisp air, and a front door that practically invited you in with a cheery wave. Stepping inside felt like slipping into a hug; the seasonal chill outside made the warmth hit just right.

Autumn in York shaped every bit of our stay, turning what could’ve been a standard break into something properly special. The days were mild enough for rambles along the River Ouse, where the trees along the banks were a riot of rust and amber, leaves crunching underfoot like the best kind of ASMR. We wandered the city walls at dusk one evening, the fading light picking out the Minster’s spires in this ethereal way – no crowds, just us and the wind whispering through the ramparts. It was pure magic, that golden hour making you forget it was October.

Mornings kicked off with brews in the cottage kitchen, watching mist roll off the river from the window. We’d head to Jorvik Viking Centre, which felt even more immersive with the earthy scents of fallen leaves drifting in from outside – history coming alive under a moody sky. Lunches were hearty at local spots like Betty’s, indulging in fat rascals and steaming tea to fend off the nip. Afternoons meant Shambles strolls, the timber-framed shops glowing in the soft light, perfect for picking up fudge or mulled cider from market stalls popping up early for the season.

Evenings were the real treat, thanks to autumn’s early dark. We’d light the fire – oh, that crackle and glow against the shortening days – and tuck into roasts or bubbling stews, the cottage windows fogging up cosily. One night, a gentle rain pattered down, turning the streets into a shimmering reflection of pub lights; we dashed to a nearby boozer for pints, feeling all snug and seasonal.

Looking back, that little mishap on the drive was a reminder to slow down and savour – autumn York taught me that. The season wrapped everything in this cosy, fleeting beauty, making simple things like a leaf-strewn walk or fireside natter feel profound. If you’re chasing that proper English autumn escape, this is it – I’m already plotting a return.