I’ll never forget the drive down to St Ives in late September – that golden cusp of autumn when Cornwall’s coast still clings to summer’s warmth but whispers of cooler days ahead. The journey from the A30 was a dream until, about five miles out, I misjudged a sneaky pothole near Hayle and gave the car’s underbelly a proper thud. No harm done, just a reminder that these winding lanes don’t suffer fools gladly, especially when the hedgerows are heavy with blackberries and the light’s turning that hazy amber.

Pulling up to Old Arch Cottage on The Digey just as the afternoon sun dipped low felt like stumbling into a postcard. It’s one of those tucked-away spots in the heart of St Ives, a stone’s throw from the harbour, where the narrow cobbled street – barely wide enough for a milk float – opens onto a cluster of whitewashed fishermen’s cottages. Ours was the quintessential one: low-beamed ceilings, a cheeky front door that stuck a bit (blame the sea salt), and those arched windows framing views of bobbing boats. Arriving in early autumn meant the tourist crush had eased off, leaving the place feeling intimately ours, with the scent of woodsmoke mingling with the briny tang of low tide.

Stepping inside, the first impression hit like a cosy hug. The open-plan living space glowed in the soft, slanting light filtering through the panes – September’s shorter days painting everything in that mellow, honeyed tone that makes you want to linger. The wood-burning stove was pre-laid with kindling (a godsend, as the evening chill nipped in sharper than expected), and the kitchenette was kitted out with all the essentials: a proper Aga humming away, fresh pasties from Philps nearby waiting to be warmed, and a jug of cream for the scones I’d picked up en route. I chuckled to myself picturing the summer hordes squeezing into this bijou space; instead, we had it to ourselves, the season gifting us elbow room in a town that’s usually heaving.

First impressions extended straight out the door, of course. A five-minute wander down The Digey – that warren of alleys where every corner hides a gallery or a glimpse of turquoise sea – and we were at the harbour, watching the fishing boats unload their catch under a sky streaked with the first hints of pink. Autumn’s tides were lower, exposing rock pools teeming with crabs that my other half spent a good half-hour poking at with a stick, giggling like a kid. No blaring ice cream vans or towel-flapping crowds; just the gentle lap of waves and the odd local strolling by with a nod and a “alright there?”

As the sun set proper that first evening – earlier than I’d bargained for, mind – we cracked open a bottle of Cornish cider on the tiny patio, wrapped in blankets against the brisk sea breeze. The air was alive with the cries of kittiwakes wheeling overhead, and the streets below twinkled with the warm glow of pubs like The Sloop, tempting us with promises of proper ale. It was magical how the season shaped it all: the fading light softening the rugged cliffs of Porthmeor Beach visible in the distance, the cooler temps coaxing out that deep, earthy aroma from the cliffs, and the sense of transition mirroring my own quiet moment of reflection. Sat there, sipping and savouring the stillness, I realised how often I rush through life’s arrivals. This cottage, this time of year, forced me to pause – to truly arrive. Three days stretched ahead, but that first evening? Pure, unadulterated bliss.