I’ll never forget the drive to Padstow that crisp autumn afternoon – leaves swirling like confetti in the wind, and me, daft as ever, spilling my takeaway coffee all over the passenger seat just as we hit the A39. “Brilliant start,” I muttered to my mate Dave, mopping up the mess with a service station napkin while the radio crackled with forecasts of that classic Cornish drizzle. It was mid-October, you see, that shoulder season where summer’s buzz has faded but the land’s still wearing its golden glow, and we were dead set on three days at Lowen Lodge, a cosy stone cottage tucked into the heart of the village.

Pulling up outside Lowen Lodge felt like stumbling into a hug from an old friend. The place is proper Padstow – slate-hung walls glowing amber in the low sun, just a stone’s throw from the harbour where fishing boats bobbed gently on the tide. We’d booked it for its prime spot, and blimey, first impressions didn’t disappoint. The owner, a cheery local named Jen, met us at the door with a tray of fresh scones and clotted cream – “Welcome to autumn in Cornwall, lads!” she said with a wink. Inside, it was all low beams, a wood-burning stove already crackling (she’d lit it early, bless her), and windows framing the estuary’s misty shimmer. October’s mellow light poured in, turning the flagstone floors a warm honey colour, and the air smelled of sea salt mixed with woodsmoke. No blasting heatwaves or crowded beaches here; just that perfect nip in the air that makes you crave a jumper and a pint.

We dumped our bags and headed straight out, the season dictating our every move. Padstow in autumn is magic – the tourists thin out, leaving the streets to locals and the odd dog-walker like us. We wandered down to the harbour, where the day’s catch was being unloaded: glistening mackerel and fat prawns that Rick Stein’s lot would snap up. The sky was that vast Cornish grey-blue, with clouds scudding low, threatening rain but holding off just long enough for us to grab fish and chips from a harbourside van. Sat on a bench, wrappers flapping in the breeze, we watched gulls wheel overhead. “This is proper living,” Dave said through a mouthful, and I couldn’t argue. Summer might bring the crowds, but October’s quieter rhythm lets you breathe – no queues, just the gentle slap of waves and the rustle of turning leaves from the nearby cliffs.

Back at the lodge that evening, the seasonal shift really hit home. As dusk fell early – proper dark by half-five – we cracked open a bottle of local Rattler cider by the fire. The cottage’s garden, a wee walled haven, was alive with autumn’s fireworks: flaming Virginia creeper climbing the walls, and fat blackberries we’d picked on the stroll back from Trevone Bay, just a mile up the coast path. That short clifftop walk had been a highlight – the sea churning moody turquoise below, thrift and gorse still blooming defiantly against the wind. No scorching hikes like in July; this was bracing, invigorating stuff, with the promise of a storm brewing offshore. We supped up, played a rubbish game of cards (I lost spectacularly, as usual), and tucked into Jen’s scone leftovers slathered in cream. Funny how the cooler nights make simple comforts shine – that stove’s glow felt like pure luxury after the day’s chill.

Staring into the embers later, I had a quiet moment of reflection. Work’s been manic lately, deadlines piling up like driftwood, but here in Lowen Lodge’s embrace, with October’s soft melancholy wrapping around us, I felt properly unplugged. It’s the season’s gift, isn’t it? That reminder to slow down, savour the fade of summer into something earthier. First impressions? Spot on. If Padstow in autumn calls, Lowen Lodge is your perfect bolt-hole – mishaps, coffee stains and all. Can’t wait to go back.