I’ll never forget the drive to our holiday bungalow in Glynsk last autumn – the leaves turning that fiery orange along the Wild Atlantic Way, but sod’s law, we hit a massive puddle just outside Clifden that soaked the windscreen and had us laughing like idiots while the wipers fought a losing battle. Still, by the time we wound our way into the village, hearts racing with that proper arrival buzz, the sun was dipping low over Bertraghboy Bay, painting the Twelve Bens Mountains in this golden glow that made every mile worth it. First impressions? Magic. This superb single-storey spot, plonked right in the midst of Connemara’s rugged drama, felt like it was made for us – spacious enough for our gang of seven, cosy against the crisp October chill.

Autumn in Galway is pure poetry for a getaway like this. The air’s got that fresh, briny bite from the bay, sharpening your senses without the summer crowds trampling the paths. We arrived midweek in early October, and the season wrapped everything in this mellow hush – perfect for unwinding after the city grind. I remember stepping out onto the deck that first evening, mug of tea in hand, watching mist roll off the mountains like a gentle Irish ghost story coming to life. No traffic, no queues, just the rustle of wind through the turning bracken.

Next morning, we strolled the 900 metres to the village pub – ah, the craic there! Proper local seafood chowder, steaming hot against the damp chill, with the barman regaling us with tales of bog cuts and ghost piers. Autumn’s cooler temps made it all the more inviting; we lingered longer than planned, faces flushed from the fire and a pint or two. Essentials run to Carna, just 4.5 miles down the road, was a doddle too – stocked up on spuds and cheese, the hedgerows heavy with blackberries we picked on the way back. Felt like proper foragers, though I probably ate more than I gathered.

The real joy was the beach at Moyrus, five miles away – our daily pilgrimage. Those white sands and crystal-clear waters? In autumn, they’re transformed: empty as a secret, with waves crashing wilder under slate skies, and the dunes dotted with fiery gorse. We did that 3.5-mile looped trail from there one blustery afternoon, puffing up hillsides alive with the season’s russet palette, stopping for photos every five minutes. I had a proper moment of reflection halfway round, sat on a rock with the bay stretching out, thinking how this time of year strips everything back – no distractions, just you, the wind, and a landscape that humbles you. Felt small but alive, you know? Back at the bungalow, we’d huddle in for board games as rain pattered the roof, or brave a short hike into the hills, the earthy scents of damp moss and seaweed everywhere.

Even tried a bit of cycling one still morning, pedalling lanes framed by golden ferns, before the showers rolled in – classic Irish autumn roulette. Horseback riding was on the list too, trotting along coastal paths with the sea mist cloaking us like a soft blanket. It’s that seasonal shift that elevates it all; summer might be lively, but October’s quieter magic lets Connemara breathe, and you with it. Left feeling recharged, already plotting a return. If you’re after a spot where the Wild Atlantic Way whispers rather than roars, this is it.