I’ll never forget the drive down to Dumfries and Galloway last autumn – that golden stretch when the leaves are turning but the rain’s still holding off, or so I thought. Me and the missus piled into the car from Glasgow, full of that buzzy anticipation you get before a proper getaway. The A75 was a dream at first, winding past those rolling hills splashed with fiery reds and oranges, the Lowther Hills glowing like they’d been dipped in honey. But then, about halfway, the heavens opened. Proper Scottish deluge, the kind that turns your windscreen wipers into a blur. We pulled over near Castle Douglas for a frantic faff with the sat-nav – turned out I’d fat-fingered the postcode and we’d been heading for the wrong Dalbeattie turn-off. A good half-hour lost, but we laughed it off over soggy fish suppers from a roadside van. By the time we crested the hill towards Portling, the clouds were parting like they’d had a telling-off, and there it was: our first-floor holiday flat, perched high with these jaw-dropping views straight across the Solway Firth to the Lake District’s hazy fells. Easy stroll down to that quiet, secluded beach, which curves round to Sandyhills Bay. Blew us away right from the off – felt like we’d stumbled into a secret postcard.

Autumn’s the perfect cloak for this corner of Scotland, transforming everything into a mellow dream. The season wrapped the whole trip in this crisp, earthy magic – mornings starting with mist rolling off the firth like a soft blanket, the air sharp enough to wake you proper but not so biting you’d stay huddled inside. We’d crack open the window with our coffees, watching the tide chase in over the sands, picking out seals bobbing about or the odd heron stabbing at the shallows. No crowds, just us and the wind whispering through the turning brambles. One day, we ambled down to Portling beach at low tide, boots crunching on those pebbly stretches still warm from the sun. The sea was this moody slate grey, flecked with foam, and the dunes were alive with the rustle of fading gorse. We foraged a bit – blackberries everywhere, fat and juicy from the late-season sun, though I managed to snag myself on a thorn like a right numpty. Made a cracking crumble later, mind.

Evenings were pure bliss, that early dusk painting the sky in bruised purples and golds. We’d wrap up and wander the coastal path towards Sandyhills, the bay opening up like a hidden cove, waves sighing against the shore. Spotted a few folk gathering mussels at Rockcliffe – we gave that a go ourselves one night, steaming them with garlic and a splash of local cream stout from the Dalbeattie brewery. Cosy nights in, too, with the wood burner going (autumn’s chill demands it), bingeing on Dumfries shortbread and plotting lazy beach walks for the morrow. The season brought these quiet wildlife moments – badgers snuffling at twilight, geese honking south over the firth. Made me pause one evening, sat there with a dram, reflecting on how we’re always rushing. This place, in its autumn hush, forced a proper slowdown. No regrets about that sat-nav faff; it just made arriving feel like unwrapping a gift. If you’re after a holiday that lets the season steal the show, get yourself here in the fall. You won’t want to leave.