I’ll never forget the drive down to Fairfield Cottage in Lyme Regis last autumn – that golden stretch of early October when Dorset wraps itself in a cosy blanket of amber leaves and crisp sea air. I’d set off from Bristol at dawn, fancying myself a proper road trip pro with a thermos of builder’s tea and a playlist of indie folk tunes. But about halfway through, just past Honiton, I had one of those daft mishaps that turns a smooth journey into a comedy sketch: I spilt half my tea all over the passenger seat while trying to change gear on a sneaky hill. Cue a frantic pit stop at a layby, dabbing at the stain with a service station napkin, laughing at my own clumsiness. “Classic me,” I muttered, scraping the last of the leaves off my windscreen – the season’s first real frost had dusted everything overnight, making the lanes shimmer like they’d been iced by a cheeky fairy.

By the time I trundled into Lyme Regis, the sun was peeking through patchy clouds, casting that soft, slanted light you only get in autumn. Fairfield Cottage sits tucked away in a quiet spot just a short stroll from the Cobb – that iconic curved harbour wall made famous by The French Lieutenant’s Woman. Pulling up outside, I was hit by the first proper impression: this wasn’t some soulless holiday let; it was a proper Dorset gem, all honey-coloured stone and ivy-clinging walls glowing in the seasonal haze. The cottage door creaked open to reveal a snug sitting room with a wood-burning stove already laid with kindling – pure temptation on a day when the mercury hovered around a bracing 12°C. I dumped my bags and immediately lit it, watching flames dance as the chill from the journey melted away. Outside, the garden was a riot of autumnal colour: rusting ferns, plump hydrangeas turning papery brown, and a crab apple tree dropping its tart bounty onto the grass. I crunched a few windfalls – sharp as a nip from Jack Frost himself.

Stepping out for that first proper recce, the season shaped every moment. Lyme Regis in October is blissfully crowd-free, the summer hordes long gone, leaving the place feeling like your private playground. I wandered down to the beach, boots sinking into damp shingle still warm-ish from hidden sun pockets, while gulls wheeled overhead against a sky bruised with impending dusk. The sea was a moody slate grey, waves slapping the shore with a rhythm that whispered of fossil-hunting treasures buried just beneath – Dorset’s Jurassic Coast at its most evocative. I fossiled about for an hour, unearthing a devil’s toenail ammonite half-buried in the tide line, grinning like a kid. Light humour struck when a rogue wave snuck up and soaked my socks; hopping about cursing the sea’s cheeky timing, I couldn’t help but chuckle. Who packs spare socks for a three-day jaunt? Not this numpty.

Back at the cottage as twilight deepened, the wood stove crackled invitingly, and I rustled up a simple supper of local cheddar on doorstep toast – the kind of comfort food that hits different when the nights draw in early. Peering out the window, the garden path was already frosting over, stars pricking the ink-black sky with that crystalline clarity autumn brings before winter’s full grip. Sipping a mug of hot chocolate laced with Dorset brandy (nabbed from the village shop), I had a quiet moment of self-reflection by the fire. Here I was, miles from the daily grind, reminded how these seasonal shifts – the fading light, the earthy scents, the promise of hygge – nudge us to slow down, breathe deeper. Fairfield Cottage wasn’t just a stay; in that autumnal embrace, it felt like coming home to Dorset’s soul. Can’t wait to return when the leaves are thick on the ground.