I’ll never forget the drive to Piper Cottage (2) in Holme-next-the-Sea last autumn – that crisp October weekend when Norfolk wrapped itself in golden hues and a cheeky nip in the air that had me rummaging for my woolly hat before we’d even crossed the border. We’d set off from Cambridge early, the A149 hugging the coast like an old friend, but about five miles out, disaster struck in the form of a rogue pheasant. The blighter darted across the road just as I was belting out a terrible rendition of “Wonderwall”, sending me into a swerve that sloshed my thermos of tea all over the passenger footwell. “Brilliant start,” I muttered to my mate Dave, who was stifling laughs while mopping up with a service station napkin. Typical me – turning a scenic drive into a feathered farce.

By the time we trundled into Holme-next-the-Sea, the late afternoon sun was dipping low, painting the sky in those fiery oranges and purples that only autumn can muster. Piper Cottage (2) sat there like a proper Norfolk hug – a cosy, whitewashed two-bedder tucked into a quiet corner, just a stone’s throw from the beach and the dunes. We parked up on the gravel drive, crunching leaves under the tyres, and hauled our bags through the little picket gate. The air smelled of damp earth and sea salt, that unmistakable autumn tang that makes you feel alive. No summer crowds here; just the whisper of wind through the marram grass and the distant call of a curlew.

Stepping inside was like slipping into a favourite jumper. The living room glowed with the soft light filtering through sash windows, a wood-burning stove begging for a fire, and tartan cushions piled on the sofa. Autumn had clearly had its wicked way with the garden outside – pots overflowing with fading chrysanthemums and a crab apple tree heavy with fruit, dropping the odd one with a satisfying plop. I chuckled to myself, imagining trying to scrump them later; Dave would probably end up in a tussle with the branches. The kitchen was a dream for lazy holiday cooks: Aga humming gently, stocked with local tea (proper Yorkshire, none of that dusty stuff), and a window overlooking the paddock where a couple of Shetland ponies grazed, their coats fluffed up against the chill.

We dumped our stuff and headed straight out for first impressions – couldn’t resist. A five-minute stroll took us to Holme Beach, where the North Sea met the shore in lazy, slate-grey waves. October’s tide was out, exposing vast expanses of rippled sand, perfect for a bracing walk. The wind whipped up, carrying the scent of ozone, and we zipped up our coats as gulls wheeled overhead. No ice creams or donkey rides like in summer; instead, it was us, the dunes turning russet in the fading light, and the thrill of spotting seals bobbing offshore – their sleek heads popping up like curious neighbours. “This is proper Norfolk,” Dave said, kicking at a clump of samphire. I nodded, feeling a quiet pang of reflection: back home, life’s a treadmill of deadlines and grey commutes, but here, autumn stripped it all back to essentials – wind in your hair, sand in your shoes, and not a care beyond the next cuppa.

Back at the cottage as dusk fell, we cracked open a bottle of Norfolk cider (sourced from the honesty box at the village farm shop, naturally) and got that stove roaring. The flames danced, casting shadows on the beamed ceiling, while outside, the first stars pricked the inky sky. Piper Cottage (2) felt like it was made for this season – snug against the gathering dark, with its thick walls holding the warmth in. We toasted to pheasants dodged and beaches claimed, already plotting tomorrow’s crab-potting at Thornham Harbour, just a couple of miles up the road. Autumn in Norfolk doesn’t shout; it murmurs, and boy, does it get under your skin. If you’re after a proper escape, this is it – mishaps and all.