I’ll never forget the drive down to Castletownbere last autumn – the leaves were turning that glorious coppery gold, carpeting the winding roads like nature’s own welcome mat. I’d rented this cracking detached dormer bungalow on a quiet cul-de-sac, tucked away in a secluded rural spot on the Beara Peninsula, and I was buzzing with anticipation, imagining cosy evenings by the fire with those epic views over the harbour and out to Hungry Hill. But typical me, about ten miles out, I took a wrong turn onto one of those impossibly narrow lanes, and ended up nose-to-nose with a farmer’s tractor. Heart in mouth, I reversed for what felt like miles, laughing at myself the whole time. “Welcome to Ireland,” I muttered, finally back on track.

Pulling up just as the sun dipped low, painting the sky in fiery oranges, my first impressions were pure magic. The bungalow sat there like a hidden gem, all warm and inviting with its light-filled conservatory begging for a cuppa and a gaze across to Bere Island. Autumn’s soft light made everything glow – the rolling hills dusted in mist, the sea a shimmering slate grey. It felt like stepping into a postcard, far from the summer crowds, just me, a mate, and the whisper of wind through the hedges.

That time of year shaped every minute. Mornings started crisp and dewy, perfect for wrapping up and strolling the headland paths to Dunboy Castle ruins – those ancient stones shrouded in golden foliage, with seals barking from the rocks below. The air had that fresh, briny tang, and foraging for blackberries along the way was a highlight; my fingers ended up more stained than the berries I managed to salvage. We hiked up to the signal tower on the cliffs, the autumn sun warming our backs while Hungry Hill loomed moody and purple in the distance. No midges to bother us, just the rustle of leaves and the odd raven cawing overhead – pure, unfiltered Beara bliss.

Afternoons were for pottering around Castletownbere, popping into the pier for fresh fish and chips, steam rising in the chill air as gulls wheeled about. The town’s harbour bobbed with boats, their masts clinking softly, and the seasonal shift meant fewer tourists, so we had the place to ourselves. Back at the bungalow, we’d retreat to that conservatory, mugs of tea in hand, watching twilight creep in over the water. One evening, as rain pattered the glass, we cracked open a bottle of local craft stout and played cards till late – the views fading to starry black, with Hungry Hill’s silhouette standing sentinel.

Looking back, that gentle self-reflection hit me on the last morning, sipping coffee as fog lifted from the bay. Autumn stripped everything back – no frantic beach days, just space to breathe, to notice the world slowing down. It made me realise how often I rush through life; here, with the season’s mellow hues and quiet rhythms, I actually unwound. If you’re after a proper escape, book something like this in the autumn – the Beara Peninsula doesn’t just look stunning, it seeps into your soul. Can’t wait to go back.