I’ll never forget the drive to Wroxall last autumn – leaves turning that gorgeous coppery gold across the Isle of Wight, but sod’s law, I managed to splatter my windscreen with a rogue squirt from my water bottle just as we hit the ferry queue at Portsmouth. Cue five minutes of frantic wiping with a McDonald’s napkin while lorries honked behind us. Typical me, turning a scenic crossing into a comedy sketch. Still, by the time we chugged into Cowes, the Solent breeze had swept away the chaos, and the island’s autumn magic was already working its charm.

We’d booked this cosy cottage in Wroxall through a mate’s recommendation – one of those classic Wight farm conversions, all stone walls and low beams, tucked down a lane that screamed “proper countryside escape”. It’s only a hop from Ventnor, that proper seaside gem, but far enough to feel worlds away from the summer crowds. Arriving mid-October, the season had dialled everything down to a dreamy hush. No battling for parking at the beach; just us, the salty air turning crisp, and hedges heavy with blackberries we’d picked en route (well, I say picked – more like scratched our hands raw for a handful of tart beauties).

Pulling up to the cottage around teatime, the first impression hit like a warm hug. Dusk was falling early, the sky that perfect autumn bruised-purple, with woodsmoke curling from a neighbour’s chimney. The place was picture-perfect: flower tubs still blooming defiantly with late chrysanthemums, though the wind was whipping them about like they’d had one too many. Inside, it was all exposed beams, a log burner begging to be lit, and a kitchen that smelled faintly of previous guests’ pasties. We dumped our bags and cracked open a bottle of local Goddards ale – Wight gold, that stuff – while rain pattered gently on the windows. Autumn’s gift, innit? Cosy nights in, no faffing about with flip-flops.

First morning dawned misty, the kind of soft October fog that wraps the island like a damp blanket. We wandered out to explore on foot, sticking close to home turf. Wroxall’s got that unspoiled vibe – rolling fields fading into chalky cliffs, with the sea peeking through gaps like a shy mate. A ten-minute stroll took us to Appley Beach, not heaving like high summer, but dotted with dog-walkers chucking sticks into frothy waves. The tide was out, exposing those weird, rippled sands, and the air hummed with the earthy scent of seaweed and wet dogs. I paddled in my wellies – water like ice, naturally – laughing as a cheeky wave snuck over the top. “You daft sod,” my other half said, but we both cracked up.

Lunch was fish and chips from a takeaway in nearby Shanklin, eaten on a bench overlooking the bay. The chips were proper, fluffy inside, crisp out, wrapped in yesterday’s news (well, paper anyway). Autumn sun broke through briefly, turning the sea to molten silver, but it was fleeting – bracing chill soon had us scarpering back for tea and cake. That evening, we lit the fire properly, flames dancing as chestnuts roasted on the hob. Staring into the embers, I had one of those quiet moments: rushing about life back home, you forget how a simple change of season can reset you. Here, with the Wight’s wild winds rattling the panes and leaves skittering past, everything felt unhurried, real. No neon lights, just nature’s palette shifting from green to amber.

By day three, even the smallest details sang of autumn’s touch – dew-jeweled spiderwebs draping the garden fence, the faint tang of bonfires from farms nearby. First impressions? Wroxall in October is pure tonic: understated, restorative, with just enough nip to make the warmth hit harder. If you’re after that, pack your thermals and go. I’m already plotting a return.