We set off for Galwad y Mor on one of those early-autumn days when the sky can’t quite decide whether it’s still summer or already conceding to October. The sat-nav promised two hours from Cardiff, which felt optimistic once the rain started. By the time we reached the lane that dips towards the beach, the wipers were working overtime and my phone had decided the cottage was somewhere in a field behind us. We pulled over, squelched through a puddle that turned out to be deeper than my boots, and discovered the postcode had sent us to the wrong end of the row. Nothing like arriving with one soggy sock and a mild sense of defeat to set the tone.

Still, the moment the door clicked open, the season seemed to rearrange itself. The cottage sat just above the tideline, its windows already steamed from the kettle someone had thoughtfully left on the side. Outside, the September light had that low, honeyed quality that makes everything look gentler; the sand wasn’t the bright gold of July but a softer, pewter shade, and the waves rolled in with a steady, unhurried rhythm that matched the slower pace we’d promised ourselves. We kicked off damp shoes, draped coats over the radiator, and watched a small flock of oystercatchers skitter along the shoreline as if they, too, were making the most of the last mild evenings.

The first proper walk along the beach felt different from any summer stroll. Gone were the clusters of paddlers and the smell of sun-cream; instead we had the place almost to ourselves, save for a couple walking their spaniel and a lone swimmer braving the cooler water. The breeze carried that unmistakable mix of salt and woodsmoke from somewhere further up the coast, and the air felt sharper, cleaner. We wandered as far as the low dunes, then turned back when the light began to fade around four, the horizon already tinged with the first hint of evening. Inside again, the wood-burner took the chill off while we unpacked, and the cottage’s simple layout—small kitchen, big window, sofa that actually faced the view—suddenly felt exactly right for this time of year.

Later, with rain tapping the glass and the tide slipping out under a pewter sky, I found myself thinking how often I’d chased “perfect” weather on holidays, only to realise the imperfect ones linger longer in memory. Here, the season had done the editing for us: fewer people, softer colours, and that quiet permission to slow down without feeling guilty about it. By the time we turned in, the mishap with the sat-nav and the soggy sock already felt like part of the story rather than a disruption, and the cottage, warm and slightly creaky in the autumn wind, seemed perfectly content to keep us exactly where we were.