I’ll never forget the drive to our three-bed lodge in Beaworthy last autumn – that crisp October weekend when the Devon lanes were carpeted in golden leaves, and the air had that proper bite to it that makes you glad you packed an extra jumper. We’d set off from Exeter early, the kids buzzing in the back with crisps and iPads, me navigating via a dodgy sat-nav that insisted on pronouncing “Beaworthy” like some exotic fruit. About halfway, disaster struck: I misjudged a puddle from the morning’s drizzle – one of those massive Devon pothole-lake hybrids – and splash! The car’s underbelly got a muddy bath, splattering the windscreen like abstract art. “Brilliant, Dad’s turned us into a rally team,” my eldest quipped, and we all cracked up, wiping it off with soggy tissues while the heater blasted away the chill.

By the time we trundled up the lane to the lodge, the sun was dipping low, painting the sky in those fiery oranges and purples that only autumn delivers. Beaworthy’s tucked away in North Devon’s West Devon District, proper rural idyll, and the seasonal shift had turned it magical. The lodge sat there snug as a bug, nestled among oaks shedding their copper leaves like confetti. First impressions? Blimey, it was love at first sight. Wood-burning stove already stocked (cheers to the hosts), fairy lights twinkling against the twilight, and that veranda begging for a cuppa while watching mist roll in from the nearby woods. The three bedrooms were cosy nooks – ours with a view straight onto dew-kissed meadows where sheep grazed, oblivious to the dropping temps.

Stepping inside, the warmth hit like a hug. Autumn’s mellow light filtered through the windows, highlighting the rustic beams and that Aga cooker humming away, perfect for rustling up a stew later. We dumped the bags and dashed out for a proper first recce, the kids kicking through crunchy leaves, their wellies squelching in the soft earth. The garden – or should I say wild patch – was alive with the season’s touches: blackberries still clinging to hedges (we scoffed a handful, tart as anything), and the air thick with that earthy, damp scent you only get when summer’s properly bowed out. No blazing sun or tourist hordes here; just us, the rustle of wind in the trees, and a distant tractor chugging across the fields.

We lit the stove straight away – crackling flames chasing off the evening chill – and cracked open a bottle of mulled cider I’d nabbed from a farm shop en route. Sat on the veranda wrapped in blankets, we watched the stars pop out sharper than I’ve seen in years, thanks to autumn’s clearer skies before winter clouds muscle in. The kids roasted marshmallows on sticks, giggling as they went gooey and black, while I reflected on how this seasonal quietude was just what we needed. Life back home’s a whirlwind of school runs and deadlines; here, with the leaves swirling like nature’s own fireworks, I felt properly unplugged, pondering how often we forget to hit pause.

That first evening shaped the whole vibe – breakfast the next morning was porridge with foraged apples from the garden’s gnarly tree, steam rising in the frosty air. A gentle stroll down the lane revealed hedgerows bursting with sloes and hips, the kind of harvest bounty that screams Devon autumn. Even the minor chill nipping at our ears added to it, making every hot chocolate taste like nectar. The lodge felt like an extension of the season itself – sheltered, inviting, a bubble against the world’s frenzy. If you’re chasing that golden-hour glow and leaf-peeping bliss, this spot in Beaworthy’s your ticket. Three days in, and we were already plotting a return next harvest. Pure seasonal perfection.