I’ll never forget the drive to No.9 The Vista in Woolacombe last autumn – that crisp October weekend when North Devon wrapped itself in a golden haze, turning every twisty lane into a postcard. We’d set off from Barnstaple early, the kids buzzing in the back with crisps and iPads, me at the wheel with a thermos of tea and a dodgy satnav that decided, mid-journey, to throw a proper wobbly. “Recalculating,” it chirped cheerily as it guided us onto a farm track near Mortehoe, where we spent a good 10 minutes reversing past a flock of bemused sheep. Classic me – always one for an insignificant mishap to kick things off. But honestly, with the autumn sun slanting through the car windows and the bracken on the moors glowing rusty red, it felt like the perfect comedy opener to our three-day escape.

By the time we trundled into Willingcott, the light was fading into that soft, amber glow you only get in late October – not quite summer’s blaze, but worlds away from winter’s gloom. No.9 The Vista sits perched on the hillside, one of those classic North Devon cottages with a cheeky nod to the sea views that live up to the name. We parked up, lugging bags past the low stone wall draped in fading ivy, and the first waft of woodsmoke from a neighbour’s chimney hit us. Inside, it was pure cosy bliss: flagged floors, a wood-burning stove already set with kindling (bless the hosts), and those big sash windows framing Woolacombe Bay like a living painting. The sea was a moody slate-grey that afternoon, waves curling lazily under a sky streaked with clouds – autumn’s signature, keeping surfers bundled in wetsuits rather than strutting the beach in board shorts.

We dumped the bags and headed straight out for first impressions, wrapped in coats and scarves because, let’s face it, October in North Devon doesn’t mess about with the chill. A five-minute stroll down to Willingcott Beach, and it was ours – vast, empty sands fringed by dunes turning that fiery orange from the dying bracken. No crowds, just the three of us and a lone dog walker, the air sharp with salt and the faint tang of seaweed. The tide was out, exposing rock pools shimmering in the low sun, and we poked about like kids, spotting hermit crabs scuttling in the shadows. “Look at this one, it’s got a posh shell!” I laughed to the little ones, though secretly I was chuffed at how the season had gifted us this solitude – summer’s tourist hordes banished, leaving space to breathe.

Back at the cottage as dusk fell, we lit the stove – crackle, pop, instant hygge – and cracked open a bottle of local Devon cider while the kids demolished fish fingers. Peering out at the darkening bay, with Woolacombe’s twinkling lights just visible across the water, I had one of those gentle moments of self-reflection. Here I was, faffing about with life’s little stresses back home, when this spot was reminding me how autumn strips things back to what matters: warmth inside, wild beauty out. The next morning dawned misty, the sea mist rolling in like a soft blanket, muting the cliffs and turning the air brumous. We wandered to Mortehoe’s headland path, boots crunching fallen leaves, gorse still blooming defiantly yellow against the grey. A quick stop at the National Trust car park for a brew from the flask – no fancy café runs in this weather – and we watched seals basking on the rocks below, their barks carrying on the wind.

That first full day wrapped with a windswept clifftop picnic, huddled against the breeze with pasties from Woolacombe’s bakery (proper job, flaky pastry holding up to the damp). The season shaped every bit: cooler swims for the brave, earlier sunsets pulling us indoors to board games by the fire, and that fresh, invigorating bite in the air that makes you feel alive. No.9 The Vista wasn’t just a stay; in October’s embrace, it was a hug from North Devon itself – mishaps, mist and all. Can’t wait to go back.