I’ll never forget the drive to Wye Valley Yurt near Blakeney last autumn – that crisp October weekend when the Forest of Dean was putting on its annual fireworks show of fiery reds and golds. I’d set off from Gloucestershire’s busier bits with the satnav primed, windows down to catch the earthy scent of fallen leaves, only for the first comedy mishap to strike five minutes in: a rogue pheasant decided my windscreen was its personal launchpad. Feathers everywhere, heart in mouth, and me pulling over on a leafy verge to check for damage. Miraculously, just a smudge and a story to tell. Laughed it off, wiped it down with a takeaway napkin, and carried on, the season’s bounty already whispering promises of cosy woodland magic.

By the time I trundled down the narrow lane to the yurt, the afternoon sun was slanting low through the canopy, painting everything in that golden-hour glow that only autumn delivers. Blakeney’s tucked right in the heart of it all – a proper hidden gem where the Wye Valley’s ancient oaks and beeches frame the sky like nature’s own cathedral. The yurt itself sat there like a welcoming hug: a sturdy, circular haven nestled among the trees, its canvas walls bulging invitingly against the chill. I parked up on the gravel patch, grabbed my weekend bag (overpacked with woollies, as per usual), and stepped out into air so fresh it nipped at my cheeks. October’s breath, you see – not yet winter’s bite, but with that invigorating tang of woodsmoke and damp moss that makes you feel alive.

Pushing open the wooden door, the first impression hit like a warm embrace. Inside, it was all low-beamed charm: a proper wood-burning stove crackling away (the hosts had lit it early, bless ’em), casting flickering shadows on the curved walls. The bed was piled high with quilts and tartan blankets – essential for those autumn nights when the temperature dips and you wake to frost-kissed spiderwebs outside. I dumped my bag and brewed a cuppa from the provided kettle, sinking into the squishy sofa with a sigh. Through the circular window, the valley views were pure poetry: leaves swirling in a gentle breeze, the odd squirrel darting across the forest floor like it owned the place. No telly, no Wi-Fi pinging – just the seasonal symphony of rustling branches and distant owl hoots gearing up for dusk.

That first evening shaped up perfectly under autumn’s spell. I wrapped up in a scarf and wandered the short path to Blakeney’s edge, where the trees thinned to reveal pockets of the River Lydney’s glassy flow, its banks carpeted in coppery ferns. The light was fading fast, turning the foliage into a blaze that no Instagram filter could match. Back at the yurt, I rustled up supper on the little hob – local sausages from the Blakeney farm shop (stocked with seasonal squash and apples that tasted like they’d been picked that morning), sizzling away as the stove’s heat wrapped the space in toasty comfort. Sat there munching by candlelight, watching the flames dance, I couldn’t help a quiet chuckle at my earlier pheasant drama. “City softie,” I muttered to myself, realising how these moments strip you back.

As night proper fell, the yurt transformed into a starry-domed cocoon. October’s clear skies meant the heavens were on full display through the skylight – Orion winking down as if to say, “Welcome to the wild.” Curled under the covers, the gentle creak of the canvas in the wind lulled me to sleep, that perfect autumnal blend of chill outside and snug within. First impressions? Bloody brilliant. In a world of rush, this spot – shaped utterly by the season’s mellow magic – reminded me to slow down, breathe deep, and let nature lead. Can’t wait for the next equinox pull.