I’ll never forget the drive to Wedmore Premier last autumn – leaves crunching under the tyres like a giant bonfire someone had forgotten to light, and me, daft as ever, spilling my flask of tea all over the passenger seat just as we hit the Somerset Levels. It was one of those classic mishaps that had us both laughing through soggy jeans, turning a straightforward journey from the M5 into a proper comedy of errors. October’s golden haze had transformed the flatlands into a patchwork of amber and rust, with mist rolling in from the nearby rhines like a shy ghost saying hello. By the time we trundled into Wedmore village, the sun was dipping low, painting everything in that soft, harvesty glow that makes Somerset feel like it’s been plucked from a Constable painting.

Pulling up to Wedmore Premier, my heart did a little flip. This wasn’t just any cottage; it was a proper gem, all honey-coloured stone nestled in a quiet spot on the edge of the village, with ivy clinging on like it owned the place. Autumn had worked its magic here too – the garden was a riot of fallen leaves in fiery reds and oranges, carpeting the gravel drive and rustling underfoot as we unloaded our bags. The air was crisp, carrying that earthy scent of damp soil and woodsmoke from nearby chimneys, a far cry from the stuffy city fumes we’d left behind. I remember standing there for a moment, breathing it all in, thinking how this season strips everything back to what matters: cosy nooks, warming cups of something strong, and the simple joy of being somewhere timeless.

Stepping inside for those first impressions, it was like the cottage had been waiting just for us. The open-plan living area welcomed us with a wood-burning stove already set with kindling – perfect for October’s chill that sneaks in after dark. I could feel the season dictating the vibe straight away; no rushing about in shorts here, it was all about layering up in jumpers and sinking into the plush sofas with a blanket. The kitchen was a dream, stocked with everything you’d need for a lazy fry-up using local eggs from Wedmore’s farm shops – we nipped out that first afternoon to the village high street, just a stone’s throw away, where the autumn produce was spilling out of baskets: plump pumpkins, Cox’s apples blushing pink, and jars of hedgerow jelly that screamed Somerset.

As the afternoon light faded into that early dusk October brings – clocks back, nights drawing in like a cosy quilt – we lit the fire and cracked open a bottle of Somerset cider from a nearby orchard. The flames danced, casting flickering shadows on the beams, and outside the windows, the garden lanterns glowed against the gathering twilight. It was pure magic, that seasonal shift making every moment feel intimate and indulgent. Wandering the garden paths later, torch in hand, the crunch of leaves and distant call of rooks settling in the trees had me pausing for a gentle think. Here I was, mid-forties and still getting wide-eyed at a place like this, realising how autumn’s mellow pace nudges you to slow down, appreciate the quiet beauty before winter’s hush. No grand adventures needed; just this perfect pocket of Wedmore, wrapped in the season’s embrace.

Those first hours set the tone for our three-day escape – no itinerary, just letting October lead the way with its foggy mornings and crisp evenings. Wedmore Premier felt like home from the off, a haven shaped entirely by the time of year. If you’re after that authentic Somerset soul-soother, book it in autumn; you won’t regret a soggy trouser leg.