I’ll never forget the drive to Dymock in the Forest of Dean last autumn – leaves everywhere, turning the roads into a crunchy golden carpet, but with that cheeky nip in the air that screams “wrap up, mate!” It was mid-October, peak foliage season, when the Forest of Dean puts on its annual show like a proper diva. My partner and I piled into the car from Gloucester, only about 20 minutes away, but wouldn’t you know it, I managed to take a wrong turn onto a narrow lane near Newent. Classic me – following the satnav like a lamb, only for it to lead us into a muddy farm track ankle-deep in fallen leaves. We laughed it off as I reversed out, tyres slipping comically on the wet gloss of recent rain, both of us covered in a faint earthy scent that already felt like Forest magic.

Finally rolling up to the cottage just as the afternoon light dipped low – that hazy, amber glow autumn specialises in – I was gobsmacked. Dymock sat there snug as a bug in a rug, a proper chocolate-box Forest of Dean cottage with ivy climbing the stone walls like it was auditioning for a period drama. The garden was a riot of rust and amber, with leaves swirling in lazy eddies from a gentle breeze, and the air thick with that damp, mossy perfume you only get when the woods are shedding their summer skins. We’d booked it for three days to unplug, and from the off, the season wrapped around us like a cosy scarf. No harsh winds yet, just that crisp edge that makes every breath feel alive, sharpening your senses for the woodland whispers.

Stepping inside was pure bliss – the wood-burner already laid with logs, begging to be lit against the encroaching chill. First impressions? It was like the cottage had been waiting for us, all beams and flagstones glowing in the soft light filtering through leaded windows framed by turning vines. We dumped our bags and cracked open a flask of tea, peering out at the garden where birds flitted among the blackberries still clinging to bushes, heavy and jewel-like before the frosts claim them. Autumn here turns everything tactile; you can’t help but rake your fingers through the drifts of copper beech leaves piled by the door, each one crisp-edged and faintly scented like bonfire to come.

That first evening, we wandered the immediate paths around Dymock – nothing strenuous, just ambling under the canopy where oaks and sweet chestnuts towered, their branches a tangled fireworks display of yellows and scarlets. The season dictated every step: puddles mirrored the fiery sky, and the undergrowth rustled with foraging squirrels, their cheeks bulging with hazelnuts. Light humour struck when I slipped on a slick bank of mossy leaves – “timber!” I yelped, landing bum-first in a pile of them, emerging looking like a deranged autumn sprite. We howled with laughter, brushing off the debris as the sun set early, painting the Forest in bruised purples that made you glad for the cottage’s warm glow waiting back home.

As night fell proper, with stars punching through the crisp black sky – no light pollution here, just pure, velvety dark – we lit that fire. Crackling flames danced, casting shadows on walls that felt steeped in centuries of similar evenings. Sipping mulled cider (autumn essential), I had a quiet moment of self-reflection by the hearth. Work stress from back home melted away; in that leaf-strewn hush, I realised how the season strips things bare, forcing you to notice the slow beauty in letting go. Dymock wasn’t just a stay; it was autumn’s gentle nudge to breathe deep and savour the turn. First impressions? Unbeatable – I’m already plotting a return for next year’s blaze.