I’ll never forget the drive down to Somerset last autumn – golden leaves carpeting the lanes like nature’s own confetti, though my little mishap with the sat-nav nearly turned it into a comedy of errors. I’d punched in “Honeyhurst, Strawberryfield Park, Cheddar” and off we went from Bristol, expecting a smooth 45-minute jaunt. But no, the cheeky thing decided to reroute us through a muddy farm track just outside Axbridge, splattering my windscreen with enough Somerset clay to audition for a Glastonbury mud bath. A quick wipe with a Costa napkin, a sheepish laugh with my other half, and we were back on track, the autumn sun dipping low and painting the Mendip Hills in fiery oranges. By the time we trundled into Strawberryfield Park, the clocks had just ticked over to that crisp, leaf-kicking season where everything feels like it’s settling in for a cosy natter.

Pulling up to Honeyhurst around 4pm on that first Friday, the cottage hit me like a warm hug from an old mate. Tucked into this peaceful holiday park just a stone’s throw from Cheddar village, it’s the sort of place that screams “get away from it all” without you even needing to try. Autumn had dressed it perfectly: ivy climbing the stone walls in russet reds, and those hanging baskets still clinging to their last defiant blooms, though a few petals fluttered down like confetti in the breeze. The wooden front door creaked open to reveal a lounge that was pure snug heaven – a wood-burning stove already laid with kindling (bless the hosts), tartan throws draped over plump sofas, and windows framing views of the park’s woodland edges, where trees stood like sentinels shedding their coats.

First impressions? Bloody brilliant. We dumped our bags and cracked open a bottle of local Cheddar Valley cider – sharp and fizzy, just right for the cooling air – while the late afternoon light filtered through in that soft, golden haze only October can muster. Stepping out onto the patio, the seasonal shift was everywhere: the air crisp with that earthy dampness, carrying hints of woodsmoke from nearby chimneys and fallen apples fermenting sweetly underfoot. The park felt alive in its autumnal hush – no summer crowds splashing in the heated pool (which we eyed enviously from afar, imagining sunnier stays), just the rustle of leaves and the occasional pheasant darting across the paths. It was like the whole landscape was exhaling after summer’s frenzy, inviting you to breathe deep and slow.

We wandered down to the play area for a nose – empty swings creaking gently in the wind, perfect for a quiet moment – then ambled the short path into Cheddar itself, no more than a mile away. The village high street was a treat: pumpkin displays spilling out of farm shops, and the Cheddar Gorge Cheese Company’s windows fogged with the warmth of fresh batches. We grabbed a slab of their mature cheddar, still crumbly from the season’s milking, and some scones slathered in clotted cream that tasted like liquid gold. Back at Honeyhurst by dusk, we lit the stove – flames dancing like they were auditioning for Bonfire Night – and tucked into supper with the doors cracked to let in the night air, alive with the hoot of owls from the woods.

That first evening, as the sky bruised to purple and stars pricked through the chill, I had one of those gentle moments of reflection. Sat there with my cuppa, watching the embers glow, I realised how autumn strips things back to what matters: simple comforts, nature’s quiet show, and no rush. Honeyhurst wasn’t just a cottage; in that golden season, it felt like a little pocket of Somerset magic, wrapping you in its mellow embrace from the very first sight. If you’re chasing first impressions that linger like woodsmoke on your jumper, this is the spot – especially when the leaves are turning.