I’d barely pulled off the A55 when the satnav decided Llandudno needed a detour through every back lane in Colwyn Bay, so by the time I finally spotted the little wooden sign for The Wren I was already running late for my own holiday. The funny bit came when I tried to reverse into the narrow driveway and clipped the wheelie bin, sending it rolling down the slope like a wayward bowling ball until it wedged itself neatly against the front step.

October had already turned the air crisp and the light soft, so the mishap felt less like a disaster and more like an ice-breaker with the cottage itself. The Wren sat just far enough back from the promenade to catch the sea breeze without the full blast, and the first thing I noticed was how the low autumn sun painted the whitewashed walls a faint peach. Inside, the radiators were already ticking away, and the faint scent of woodsmoke from next door’s chimney drifted through the open window. I dropped my bag, flicked the kettle on, and stepped straight out again because the tide was on its way in and the beach looked irresistible in that particular golden-hour glow.

October on this stretch of coast means fewer ice-cream queues and more dog-walkers, which suited me perfectly. The sand was still warm underfoot from the day’s sun, yet the wind carried that unmistakable salty edge that makes you pull your collar up without really minding. I wandered past the closed kiosks, their shutters rattling gently, and watched a small flock of oystercatchers skitter along the waterline. Back at the cottage the little deck caught the last of the light, so I sat with a mug of tea and let the quiet settle. No traffic hum, just the rhythmic hush of waves and the occasional bark from a passing spaniel.

Later, when the sky turned that deep inky blue only autumn seems to manage, I wandered down again with a torch and a jacket. The promenade lamps were already lit, casting soft pools of light on the empty benches, and the pier stood outlined against the dusk like a half-finished sketch. I found myself thinking how easily I’d swapped the usual rush of “making the most” for simply noticing the shift in seasons. The Wren, with its cosy corners and sea-facing windows, felt like the right place to do exactly that.