I’ll never forget the drive to Rose Lodge last autumn – that crisp October weekend when Devon wrapped itself in a golden haze, leaves crunching underfoot like nature’s own confetti. I’d set off from Exeter early, windows down to catch the first whiff of woodsmoke in the air, but about halfway there, near Okehampton, I had a proper daft mishap. In my haste to beat the afternoon traffic, I misjudged a roundabout and clipped the wing mirror on a stone wall. No harm done beyond a wonky reflection staring back at me, but it had me chuckling all the way – typical me, turning a scenic drive into a comedy of errors. Still, the autumn sun filtered through the turning oaks along the A30, painting everything in amber tones, and by the time I turned off towards Roadford Lake, I was buzzing with that proper holiday anticipation.

Pulling up to Rose Lodge just as the light began to soften around 4pm felt like stumbling into a postcard. Tucked among the 21 lodges at Roadford Lake, it’s this cosy wooden haven right on the water’s edge, with views that stretch across the reservoir like a mirror to the moors. Autumn had worked its magic here – the lake shimmered under a canopy of fiery reds and burnt oranges from the surrounding woodland, and a gentle mist was already rolling in from the hills, turning the whole scene ethereal. I parked on the gravel drive, grabbed my bags, and stepped inside, hit by that instant hit of homely warmth. The open-plan living space was bathed in the golden glow of late sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, highlighting the plush sofa and that wood-burning stove begging to be lit.

First impressions? Blimey, it was love at first sight. The lodge is compact but clever – a king-sized bed in the bedroom piled high with quilts that screamed lazy lie-ins, and a kitchenette stocked with all the essentials for rustling up a fry-up. But it was the seasonal vibe that sealed it. Outside, the decking overlooked the lake, where a family of swans glided past, their white feathers stark against the rusty bracken fringing the shore. I brewed a cuppa straight away, mug in hand, and just stood there watching the leaves drift down like confetti from the wind-whipped trees. October’s chill nipped at my cheeks, but it was invigorating, not off-putting – the kind that makes you appreciate the stove’s crackle later on.

That first evening, I wandered the short path to the lake’s edge, no more than a stone’s throw from the lodge. The water was still, reflecting the sunset’s pink streaks bleeding into the twilight, and the air hummed with the rustle of falling foliage. A few other guests nodded hello from neighbouring decks, muffled coats against the dropping temperature, but it felt private, peaceful. Back inside, I got the stove going – logs from the porch basket – and the flames danced shadows across the walls as I tucked into a hearty pasty from the local shop in Lifton, just a couple of miles down the road. The warmth seeped into my bones, chasing away the day’s drive, and I couldn’t help but laugh at myself sprawled there, mirror mishap forgotten, feeling like I’d time-travelled to some Enid Blyton adventure.

Sitting by that window the next morning, mist cloaking the lake like a soft blanket, I had a quiet moment of reflection. Autumn at Rose Lodge stripped everything back – no frantic plans, just the rhythm of the season: foraging for blackberries along the woodland fringe (I nabbed a handful for breakfast crumble), watching herons stalk the shallows, and breathing in that earthy, damp scent that only Devon delivers in October. It made me realise how often I rush through life; here, time slowed, mirrored by the lazy lap of water on the shore. By day three, as the sun broke through for a crisp walk around the lake’s perimeter trail – all 400 acres of it alive with fungi and fleeting butterflies – I was already plotting a return. Rose Lodge isn’t just a stay; in autumn, it’s a full immersion in Devon’s mellow magic, mishaps and all.