I’ll never forget the drive to Mulberry Lodge last autumn – leaves swirling like confetti from every hedgerow, turning the Somerset lanes into a golden tunnel. It was mid-October, that sweet spot where summer’s warmth lingers just enough to fool you into packing shorts, but the bite in the air reminds you it’s proper coat weather. I’d set off from Bristol early, fancying a leisurely two-hour pootle through the Mendips, but wouldn’t you know it, I took a wrong turn near Cheddar Gorge and ended up in a muddy farm track. My little hatchback wasn’t built for off-roading, and there I was, reversing into a bramble bush with a sheep eyeing me judgementally from the fence. Classic me – always the navigator who thinks sat-navs are for amateurs. A quick nudge from a passing tractor driver (cheers, mate) and I was back on track, laughing at my daftness, the car’s windscreen plastered with squashed blackberries.

By the time I trundled into Strawberryfield Park, the late afternoon sun was dipping low, painting the sky in those fiery oranges and purples that only autumn pulls off so dramatically. Mulberry Lodge sat there like a hug from a bygone era – a cosy timber-clad cottage, all wonky beams and flower baskets still bursting with late chrysanthemums, though the petals were starting to crisp at the edges from the first frosts. I parked up on the gravel drive, crunching leaves underfoot, and hauled my bags inside, the air thick with that earthy, damp scent of fallen foliage mixed with woodsmoke from a neighbour’s chimney. First impressions? Blimey, it was perfect. The lounge opened up with a wood-burning stove already laid with kindling – a godsend as the evening chill crept in – and squashy sofas draped in woolly throws that screamed ‘cosy night in’.

Stepping into the kitchen, I couldn’t help but grin. Flagstone floors, a Rayburn cooker humming away, and a window overlooking the park’s strawberry fields, now a patchwork of rust-red vines heavy with the last of the season’s fruit. Autumn had turned the whole place into a feast for the eyes – hawthorn berries glowing like rubies on the bushes outside, and the cider apple trees in the distance bowing under their load. I brewed a pot of tea straight away (builder’s strength, naturally), and sat at the oak table munching on scones I’d picked up from Cheddar’s village shop en route. The cream was proper clotted, thick as custard, and paired with blackberry jam from my car mishap – accidental foraging at its finest.

As dusk fell, I wrapped up and wandered the park paths, torch in hand. The seasonal shift was everywhere: mist rolling in from the Levels, glowing under the moon like a ghostly duvet; the air crisp enough to pink your cheeks but laced with that mellow fruitiness from fermenting windfalls. Mulberry Lodge felt like it belonged to this time of year – not some sterile holiday let, but a proper retreat where autumn’s mellow magic seeped into the walls. I lit the stove, flames crackling as shadows danced on the low ceilings, and cracked open a bottle of Somerset cider, toasty and spiced. Listening to the wind rustle the mulberry leaves outside, I had one of those quiet moments – you know, reflecting on how rushing through life back home leaves no room for this. Here, with the season winding down so gracefully, it hit me: sometimes the best holidays are the ones that slow you right down, letting nature’s palette do the talking.

That first evening set the tone for my three days – no grand plans, just sinking into the lodge’s embrace amid Somerset’s autumnal hush. If you’re after a spot where the time of year turns a simple stay into something poetic, Mulberry Lodge is your ticket. I’m already plotting a return next harvest.