We set off from Cardiff on a drizzly October morning, the sort of weather that makes you wonder why you bothered packing anything other than jumpers. The satnav took us through a few winding lanes before we finally pulled up outside the four-bed cottage in Mumbles, only to discover I’d managed to lock the keys inside the boot while wrestling with an over-stuffed cool bag. Ten minutes of mild panic and one very patient neighbour with a coat hanger later, we were in, laughing at my own expense as the rain tapped against the windows.

The cottage felt instantly welcoming, all low ceilings and thick stone walls that had clearly seen a few autumns. A faint smell of woodsmoke lingered from the log burner, and someone had left a small pile of driftwood by the hearth, ready for the evening. We dropped our bags in the hallway and wandered straight through to the kitchen, where the kettle was already filled and a jar of local biscuits sat on the side. Outside, the garden sloped gently toward the sea wall, and the tide was already turning, pulling the October light into soft greys and silvers.

We didn’t rush to unpack. Instead we pulled on our coats again and walked the short distance down to the beach, hands shoved into pockets against the sharp breeze. The sand was damp and patterned with fresh footprints from dog walkers, and the air carried that unmistakable mix of salt and woodsmoke from chimneys further along the bay. A few families were out with children in bright waterproofs, collecting shells before the light faded, while an elderly couple sat on a bench sharing a flask of tea. It felt like the sort of afternoon that belonged entirely to the season.

Back at the cottage the heating had come on, and we lit the fire straight away, settling onto the sofa with mugs of soup while the rain returned in earnest. The windows steamed up quickly, turning the view of the sea into a soft blur of movement and colour. I found myself thinking how different this would feel in summer, when the same rooms would probably be full of light and the garden full of voices. October had a quieter way of claiming the place, making every small comfort, the crackle of the fire, the warmth of the blankets, feel more deliberate.

Later we cooked a simple meal using what we’d brought, the kitchen filling with the smell of onions and garlic while the tide whispered just beyond the garden wall. There was no grand plan for the evening, just the gentle rhythm of a cottage settling into autumn. As the fire settled into glowing embers I caught myself smiling at how little we’d actually done, and how perfectly that suited the time of year.