I’ll never forget the drive down to Maristow Cottage in Dartmouth last autumn – the leaves were just starting to turn that glorious russet gold, carpeting the Devon lanes like a proper country quilt. It was mid-October, you see, that sweet spot where summer’s warmth lingers just enough to fool you into packing shorts, but the breeze off the Dart estuary has a cheeky nip that demands a woolly jumper. Me and the missus piled into the car from Exeter, Spotify blasting some folky tunes to match the rolling hills, and everything was tickety-boo until I took a wrong turn near Totnes. Nothing dramatic, just me missing the sign for the A381 and ending up in a muddy farm track, tyres spinning like I was auditioning for a rally. “Bloody sat-nav,” I muttered, as a farmer on a tractor gave me a sympathetic wave. Twenty minutes later, we were back on track, laughing about my hopeless sense of direction – classic me, really.

Pulling up to Maristow Cottage as the late afternoon sun dipped low was pure magic. Tucked away in a quiet spot just a stone’s throw from Dartmouth’s buzzing quayside, it’s one of those chocolate-boxy thatched numbers that screams Devon. Autumn had dressed it perfectly: ivy climbing the stone walls in fiery reds and oranges, and a pumpkin or two grinning from the doorstep like they’d been left by friendly fairies. The air smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke – none of that sticky summer heat that turns you into a sweaty mess, but crisp enough to make every breath feel alive. We unloaded the boot in that golden hour light, the kind where shadows stretch long and everything looks like an oil painting.

Stepping inside for the first proper impressions? Blimey, it was cosy as anything. The sitting room had a proper inglenook fireplace, already laid with logs that crackled to life as I fumbled with the matches – my first win of the trip. Outside, the garden sloped gently towards glimpses of the river, where the water shimmered silver under the fading sun. No hordes of summer tourists clogging the paths; just us, a couple of dog-walkers, and the rustle of leaves in the breeze. We cracked open a bottle of local Devon cider – sharp and fizzy, perfect for the season – and toasted our arrival from the patio, wrapped in blankets against the cooling air. The cottage’s charm hit me then: those low-beamed ceilings that make you duck if you’re tall like me, the Aga in the kitchen humming warmly, ready to churn out a hearty stew later.

First impressions extended to a wee wander down to Dartmouth’s embankment, no more than a ten-minute stroll. Autumn in Devon is all about that mellow fruitfulness – the quay was lined with stalls selling fudge and pasties, steam rising like friendly ghosts in the chill. Kids in wellies kicked through piles of leaves, and the ferries chugged across to Kingswear, their horns echoing softly. Back at the cottage by dusk, we watched the sky turn from pink to indigo, stars popping out earlier than in summer. It was peaceful, almost meditative – no frantic beach days here, just that gentle slide into shorter evenings that makes you savour the quiet.

Reflecting on it now, that first evening sparked a bit of soul-searching. Life back home’s a whirlwind of deadlines and doom-scrolling, but arriving at Maristow in autumn felt like permission to slow down. The season’s subtle melancholy – fading blooms, misty mornings – mirrored my own need to pause, breathe, and just be. No grand adventures planned yet, but those initial hours set the tone: simple, restorative, quintessentially Devon. If you’re after a bolthole that wraps you up like a favourite scarf, this is it – especially when the world’s turning autumnal gold. Can’t wait to go back.