I’ll never forget the drive to Wrekin Premier Lodge last autumn—it was one of those crisp October days in Shropshire where the leaves were turning that perfect burnt orange, carpeting the winding lanes like nature’s own welcome mat. I’d set off from Shrewsbury early, buzzing with excitement for my three-day getaway, but about five miles out, disaster struck in the form of a rogue pheasant. The blighter darted right across the road, and in my panic, I swerved just enough to splash straight through a massive puddle. Muddy water everywhere—my windscreen looked like a Jackson Pollock painting, and I was laughing at myself the whole way, wiping it down with a soggy tissue. Typical me, turning a scenic drive into a comedy of errors.

By the time I pulled up to the lodge, the sun was dipping low, casting long shadows over the Wrekin’s hulking silhouette—that ancient hill looming just nearby, its slopes ablaze with fiery foliage. Autumn in Shropshire has this magical quality, doesn’t it? The air’s got that sharp, apple-cider bite, and everything smells of damp earth and woodsmoke. Wrekin Premier Lodge sits in a peaceful spot on the edge of Shrewsbury, surrounded by rolling fields that were glowing in the golden hour light. It’s one of those cosy self-catering spots—modern inside but with that rustic charm that screams “get away from it all.” I parked up, grabbed my bags, and stepped inside, instantly hit by the warmth from the log burner they’d already lit for me. Proper thoughtful touch, that.

First impressions? Blimey, it was love at first sight. The open-plan living area felt like a hug—plump sofas piled with cushions, a kitchen kitted out with everything you’d need for a lazy fry-up, and huge windows framing views of the misty countryside. Outside, the private patio was scattered with fallen leaves, perfect for sipping tea while watching the world slow down. October’s mellow light filtered through, turning the wooden beams golden and making the whole place feel like a scene from a Brambly Hedge book. I dumped my stuff and immediately brewed a cuppa, cracking the door to let in that fresh, leaf-mulch scent. It was chilly enough that I layered up in my favourite jumper, but not so cold you couldn’t enjoy it—the kind of weather that makes you appreciate a hot drink all the more.

Wandering the grounds, I couldn’t help but grin at how the season had dressed everything up. The neighbouring fields were dotted with Shropshire cows munching on the last of the grass, their breath puffing out in little clouds, and the hedgerows were heavy with blackberries—tart little jewels begging to be picked. I nabbed a handful for my morning porridge, feeling like a proper forager. The Wrekin itself looked irresistible from the lodge, its paths probably crunching underfoot with all those fallen acorns and conkers. I resisted the hike for the first evening, though—too knackered from the drive and that pheasant fiasco. Instead, I pottered about, unpacking and settling in, the fading daylight prompting me to light a few candles as the sky bruised to purple.

Sitting there with my feet up, mug in hand, I had a bit of a moment. Life’s been a whirlwind lately—work piling up, endless to-do lists—and arriving here in the heart of Shropshire’s autumn hush made me reflect on how rare it is to just… stop. The rustle of leaves in the breeze outside, the soft glow inside, it all felt like permission to breathe. No rush, no plans, just me and this cracking little lodge whispering, “You’ve earned this.” By nightfall, stars were pricking the clear sky—autumn’s gift of sharper nights—and I drifted off to the sound of owls hooting nearby, already plotting a leaf-kicking ramble come morning. If first impressions are anything to go by, this was shaping up to be the perfect seasonal escape.