I’ll never forget the drive down to Wexford last autumn – the leaves were turning that glorious coppery gold, carpeting the roads like nature’s own welcome mat. We’d piled into the car from Dublin early, me navigating with my trusty sat-nav, husband at the wheel, and our scruffy terrier, Monty, snoring in the back. About halfway, disaster struck: a sudden downpour turned the motorway into a skating rink, and we aquaplaned right into a puddle the size of a small lake. Hearts in mouths, we pulled over, laughing nervously as Monty shook himself dry like a furry mop. “Well,” I said, “that’s one way to wake up for holiday mode.” An hour later, the rain eased, and we trundled into County Wexford, the hedges heavy with blackberries and the air crisp with that unmistakable autumn bite.

Pulling up to the property, my anticipation bubbled over – I’d been dreaming of this cosy escape for weeks. It’s a beguiling blend of Irish manor house and cosy cottage, this magnificent spot with a real sense of grandeur and elegance. Wrapped in mature gardens with abundant space for entertaining and relaxing, this three-bedroom property provides ample accommodation for six guests and welcomes one beloved pup. Just 2.5 miles from Enniscorthy, it felt like our own private nook amid the county’s rolling hills. First impressions? Magic. The gardens were a riot of fiery foliage, fallen leaves crunching underfoot as Monty bounded about, tail wagging like a metronome. Inside, the wood-burner was already crackling (bless the hosts), and that first cuppa by the window, watching mist roll over the fields, had me grinning ear to ear.

Autumn shaped every moment here, turning the ordinary into something poetic. Mornings started with frosty walks along the Slaney River nearby, the water shimmering like molten silver under weak sunbeams. We’d forage for chestnuts in the woods just a stroll away, roasting them later with mugs of tea that steamed in the chill. Enniscorthy, a quick hop by car, was a treat – we wandered its cobbled streets, popping into the market for pumpkin scones and local apple cider, the air thick with the scent of woodsmoke from chimneys. One afternoon, we hiked the short trails around Vinegar Hill, the bracken ablaze in russet hues, wind whipping our scarves as we imagined the rebels of old. Monty loved it, chasing squirrels till he was knackered.

Evenings were pure hygge: hearty stews bubbling on the hob, board games by lamplight, and yarns about nothing much. The gardens begged for lazy afternoons – we strung fairy lights (okay, battery ones) and picnicked under the apple trees, their fruit dropping like little autumn bombs. One night, a gentle self-reflection hit me as I sat with a book, Monty at my feet: amid the whirlwind of daily life back home, I’d forgotten how restorative this simplicity is. No screens, just seasonal rhythms – the rustle of leaves, the snap of frost. Sure, the weather threw a few showers, but they only made the sunny spells sweeter.

Wexford in autumn? It’s like the land sighs with contentment, inviting you to do the same. If you’re after that perfect blend of adventure and armchair cosiness, this is your spot. We left with full hearts, rosy cheeks, and a bootload of conkers. Can’t wait to return.