I’ll never forget the drive down to Dorset last autumn – leaves turning that gorgeous coppery gold, crisp air sneaking through the car vents, and me, as usual, faffing about with the sat-nav because I’d forgotten to charge my phone properly. We’d set off from London early, aiming for a three-day escape to Lodge 11 near Wareham, but about halfway, disaster struck: a rogue pheasant decided to play chicken with the bonnet. No harm done, just a feathery flap and a bit of a honk from behind, but it had us laughing like loons. “Welcome to the countryside,” my mate Dave quipped, as we brushed a stray feather off the windscreen. Perfect start to our seasonal getaway, right?

By the time we trundled into the Purbeck District, the afternoon sun was dipping low, painting the rolling hills in that soft, harvest-time glow. Autumn in Dorset is pure magic – hedges heavy with blackberries, the air thick with that earthy, damp scent of fallen leaves. Lodge 11 sits tucked away in a quiet spot just outside Wareham, part of a cluster of cosy lodges that feel like they’ve been plucked from a postcard. Pulling up, I was hit by first impressions that screamed “proper rural retreat”. The gravel crunched under the tyres, and there it was: a smart wooden lodge with a pitched roof, surrounded by whispering woods starting to shed their colours. No traffic hum, just the rustle of leaves in the breeze and the distant call of a rook. After the city grind, it was like stepping into a deep breath.

We unloaded in that golden hour light, arms full of bags and a crate of local ales from the offy in Wareham. The door swung open to a surprisingly roomy interior – think exposed beams, a wood-burning stove begging to be lit, and big windows framing the woodland view. Autumn’s chill was already nipping at our heels, so we got the fire going straight away; crackling flames chased away the damp, filling the place with that toasty, smoky warmth you only get from real logs. First impressions? Bloody brilliant. The kitchen was kitted out nicely – ample worktops for rustling up a stew with whatever veg we’d nabbed from a farm shop en route. I had a daft moment trying to chop onions on the wonky board, tears streaming, blaming the seasonal pollen, but really it was just me being a rubbish cook.

Stepping outside for our first proper look around, the season wrapped itself around us like a favourite jumper. The garden path was carpeted in crunchy leaves – reds, oranges, browns crunching underfoot as we wandered the short loop through the trees. Dorset’s autumn woods are alive with that subtle drama: fungi poking up like little sentinels, cobwebs glistening with dew. We spotted a squirrel hoarding nuts, its tail fluffed against the dropping temps, and couldn’t help but chuckle at how territorial it got. “Oi, that’s our spot!” Dave joked, as it scarpered up an oak. The air was fresh, invigorating – that bracing nip that makes your cheeks glow and promises frost by morning. No summer crowds here; just peaceful solitude, the kind that lets you hear your own thoughts.

As dusk fell, the lodge glowed invitingly, windows steaming up from our brew-making inside. We cracked open tins on the decking, wrapped in blankets against the encroaching cold, watching mist roll in from the nearby Frome Valley. First night in, and already the seasonal shift was shaping everything – shorter days meant cosier evenings, the harvest moon rising fat and orange over the treetops. It got me reflecting, sat there with the fire’s warmth at my back: life in London’s a whirlwind, always chasing the next thing, but here, autumn’s slowing pace forced a pause. No distractions, just the simple joy of being present amid the turning leaves. Lodge 11 nailed that first-impression vibe – a snug haven perfectly tuned to Dorset’s autumnal rhythm. Can’t wait to go back when the frost sparkles.