I finally rolled into Porthleven after a bit of a faff on the A394 from Helston, my little hatchback groaning under the weight of weekend bags and a cool box that decided to spring a leak just as I hit the outskirts. It was mid-October, that glorious shoulder season in Cornwall when the summer crowds have scarpered but the autumn hasn't quite turned the corner into proper gales. The sky was a moody mix of slate grey and fleeting blue, with leaves swirling like confetti on the wind – perfect for a three-day escape to Lodge 83, this cosy beachfront cottage I'd booked on a whim.

Pulling up to Gwel-an-Mor, the row of lodge-style homes hugging the cliffs just above Porthleven's harbour, I couldn't help but grin. The place looked like it had been plucked from a postcard of perpetual holidays, but the off-season hush made it feel like our own private bolthole. Mine was Lodge 83, a snug two-bedder with wraparound windows that promised uninterrupted sea views. I fumbled the key code – typical me, fingers numb from the chill sea breeze – and tumbled inside, shaking off the drizzle that had started spitting as I parked.

First impressions? Blimey, it was love at first step. The open-plan living space opened right onto the ocean, waves crashing below like a free sound-and-light show. October's softer light filtered through, turning the wooden floors golden and the cream sofas invitingly squishy. I dumped my bags and beelied straight to the balcony, mug of tea in hand (proper builder's brew from the well-stocked welcome pack). Down in the harbour, the fishing boats bobbed lazily, their nets furled against the strengthening wind. No neon-clad surfers shredding waves like in summer; instead, a handful of hardy locals in waterproofs were prepping pots for crab – the season's bounty just kicking off.

That first afternoon, with the sun dipping low and fast – one of those autumn tricks where daylight vanishes by half four – I wandered down the cliff path to Porthleven proper. The air was crisp, laced with salt and that earthy tang of fallen leaves crunching underfoot. The village felt intimate, almost secretive, with shuttered beach huts and cafes doing a roaring trade in pasties rather than ice creams. I grabbed a steaming fish stew from a harbourside spot, hunkering down at an outdoor table under a heater. A pod of seals popped up just offshore, their barks carrying on the breeze – a seasonal treat you miss in the tourist crush of July.

Back at the lodge as dusk fell, I lit the wood burner (logs provided, thank goodness), its crackle warding off the evening chill that seeps into your bones this time of year. Cosied up with a book, watching the lighthouse beam sweep across the inky sea, I had one of those quiet moments. Here I was, mid-forties and still chasing that childlike wonder of seaside holidays, but October stripped it back to basics: no queues, no sunburn, just me, the elements, and a cracking view. Why had I not done this sooner? Life's too short for peak-season stress.

The next morning dawned misty, the kind of fog that cloaks Porthleven in mystery, muting the roar of the barrelling waves at the beach. I strolled the harbour wall, dodging puddles and waving to dog-walkers in bobble hats – everyone seems friendlier when it's not scorching. Picked up fresh scones from the bakery, slathered in clotted cream for elevenses on the balcony. The seasonal shift was everywhere: blackberries ripe for the picking along the paths, turning my fingers purple, and that golden-hour glow lingering just long enough for photos that didn't need filters.

By day three's checkout, I was already plotting a return – maybe November for storm-watching. Lodge 83 in October? Pure magic. It's the time of year that reminds you Cornwall's best kept secret is savouring it slow, with the wind in your hair and not a soul to fight for the view.