I’ll never forget the drive down to Little Africa in Bridport, Dorset, that crisp October afternoon. It was one of those autumn days where the sun plays hide-and-seek behind fluffy clouds, turning the A35 into a ribbon of golden light filtering through the turning leaves. I’d set off from Bristol full of high hopes for a cosy three-day escape, but about halfway there, disaster struck in the form of a rogue crisp packet. Yes, really. I’d grabbed a bag of cheese and onion from a service station, and as I rummaged one-handed at 60mph, the whole lot exploded across the dashboard. Crisps everywhere – wedged in the vents, stuck to the windscreen wipers. I pulled over near Dorchester, laughing at myself while picking them out, the sharp autumn chill nipping at my fingers through the open window. A proper daft start, but it set the tone for what turned out to be a perfectly imperfect getaway.

By the time I trundled up the narrow lane to Little Africa just before dusk, the seasonal magic was in full swing. This isn’t some flashy holiday let; it’s a proper stone cottage tucked into the West Dorset countryside, the kind that feels like it’s been waiting for you since Jane Austen’s day. October’s mellow hues had painted everything – the garden hedges bursting with fiery reds and oranges, fallen leaves carpeting the gravel drive like a crunchy welcome mat. I parked up, grabbed my bags, and stepped inside, hit immediately by that heavenly wood-burner glow. The hosts had left it ticking over, flames dancing behind the glass door, chasing away the day’s damp chill. In high summer, I reckon this place would hum with barbecues and sun-soaked lounging, but autumn wrapped it in a different kind of intimacy – all woolly blankets, steaming mugs of tea, and that earthy scent of wet leaves wafting through the cracked-open windows.

First impressions? Blimey, it was love at first sight. The living room’s a snug haven: low-beamed ceiling, a squashy sofa piled with cushions, and a telly for rainy evenings (which we’d get plenty of). I dumped my stuff and pottered into the kitchen – compact but kitted out with everything you’d need for a fry-up or a stew. Outside, the garden sloped gently towards a hedge that blocked the wind, with a couple of weathered benches begging for a sit-down with a book. But October’s whimsy shone brightest here; the air was alive with the rustle of sycamore leaves swirling in mini whirlwinds, and a fat robin hopped about, eyeing me up as if to say, “You’re late for the harvest party.” I chuckled to myself, feeling a bit of a townie intruder in this rural idyll.

Wandering out for that first evening stroll – keeping it local, just a short loop around the nearby lanes – the season shaped every step. Hedgerows heavy with blackberries (a tad past their best, but I nabbed a few for a crumble), fields of stubble glowing in the low sun, and that fresh, briny tang from the sea a couple of miles off towards West Bay. No crowds, mind – Dorset in October is gloriously quiet, the tourists long gone, leaving the paths to dog-walkers and me. Back at the cottage, I lit candles (proper beeswax ones, none of your synthetic rubbish) and cracked open a bottle of red by the fire. The flames crackled as night fell early, stars popping out like someone had flicked a celestial switch. It was pure bliss, the kind that makes you forget the world’s woes.

That first night, as I snuggled under the duck-down duvet in the master bedroom upstairs – beams overhead, views over the garden’s autumn tapestry – I had a quiet moment of reflection. Sat there with a cuppa, listening to the wind sussurrating through the trees, I realised how knackered I’d been from city life. Dorset in October doesn’t shout; it whispers, inviting you to slow down, breathe deep, and just be. Little Africa nailed it – a little pocket of seasonal serenity that reset my soul before I’d even unpacked properly. Can’t wait to go back.