I’ll never forget the drive down to Porthleven in late autumn – that crisp October chill hanging in the air, turning the Cornish hedgerows into a patchwork of fiery reds and golds. The journey from the A30 was a dream until, in true me fashion, I took a wrong turn just past Helston and ended up navigating a narrow lane that felt more like a sheep’s personal runway. Leaves swirled around the car like confetti from a miserly party, and I laughed at myself as I reversed past a bemused farmer, muttering about my hopeless sense of direction. But oh, what a payoff when Myrtle Cottage came into view, tucked away in the heart of Porthleven village, its stone walls glowing warmly under the weak afternoon sun.

Pulling up outside, I was hit by that instant holiday magic – the kind autumn amplifies with its mellow light and that earthy, sea-salt tang sharpened by woodsmoke from nearby chimneys. Porthleven in October is a sleepy stunner, the harbour still bustling with fishing boats bobbing gently on slate-grey waves, but without the summer crowds. No queues at the Bickford-Smith Institute’s little gallery or the beach café; just locals wrapped in woolly jumpers, strolling the quayside with dogs shaking off the sea spray. Myrtle Cottage felt like it belonged right there – a cosy, chocolate-box two-up-two-down with a slate roof and those classic sash windows framing the village buzz. I fumbled the key under the flowerpot (as instructed), and stepping inside was like being hugged by a particularly snug nan.

The living room hit me first: low-beamed ceiling, a wood-burning stove already laid with kindling (bless the hosts), and mismatched armchairs begging for a cuppa. Autumn’s influence was everywhere – the windows misted with condensation from the damp air outside, and a bowl of late-season Cox apples on the table, their scent mingling with the faint brine from the open sea just a short stroll away. I dumped my bags and lit the fire; flames crackled to life, chasing away the chill that had seeped into my bones during the drive. Peering out, I watched the light fade over Loe Bar – that massive shingle beach where the wind whipped up frothy waves crashing against the stones. No swimming in that lot; it was proper bracing stuff, perfect for a windswept walk later, coat flapping like a rogue sail.

Upstairs, the bedrooms were pure bliss – my double with a view straight to the harbour, where gulls wheeled against bruised skies. The bed was piled high with goose-down duvets, ideal for these shortening days when night creeps in by tea-time. I chuckled to myself, imagining summer guests baking in the heat; autumn makes a cottage like this shine, turning it into a proper bolt-hole from the world. The kitchen was compact but kitted out – Aga humming warmly, shelves stocked with local jams and teabags. I brewed a pot and munched one of those apples, savouring the quiet. Outside, the village hummed faintly: the Harbour Inn’s lights twinkling on, promising a pint of Proper Job later, with pie and mash to fortify against the evening’s chill.

That first evening, as I wandered down to the harbour – leaves crunching underfoot, the air alive with that post-rain freshness – I paused for a moment of quiet reflection. Life back home had been a whirlwind of deadlines and grey commutes; here, in Porthleven’s autumn embrace, time slowed. The cottage wasn’t just bricks and mortar; it was a reminder to breathe, to let the season’s gentle melancholy wrap around you like a favourite scarf. No grand adventures planned yet, just this – arrival, immersion, the promise of two more days wrapped in coastal cosiness. Myrtle Cottage had me hooked from the off.