I’ll never forget the drive up to Scarborough last autumn – that crisp October weekend when the North York Moors were putting on their fiery show of reds and golds. I’d booked Foxes Den on a whim, craving a cosy escape from the city grind, and as I trundled along the A170 in my little hatchback, the leaves swirling like confetti in my slipstream, I felt that proper Yorkshire anticipation building. The journey was textbook Scarborough: winding roads hugging the coast, glimpses of the North Sea turning from steely grey to sapphire under fleeting sunbeams. But, true to form, I had a daft mishap – about five miles out, I misjudged a pothole (those rural roads, eh?), and my coffee tumbler flew from the passenger seat, spilling its dregs all over the floor mat. “Brilliant,” I muttered, pulling over to mop it up with an old rag, laughing at myself as the wind whipped the denuded branches overhead. Autumn’s cheeky reminder that nothing’s ever straightforward.

By the time I rolled into Scarborough proper, the town was buzzing with that seasonal shift – holidaymakers bundled in woollies, clutching chips against the chill, while the air carried the briny tang of the sea mixed with woodsmoke from beachside fires. Foxes Den is tucked away in a quiet corner near the South Cliff, just a short stroll from the promenade, and spotting its chocolate-box charm had me grinning like a kid at Christmas. Perched in a row of Victorian terraces, it’s the quintessential Scarborough bolthole: a snug two-up-two-down cottage with a cheeky fox motif on the door knocker that winked at me as I fumbled the key. I’d timed it perfectly for autumn’s mellow magic – no summer crowds clogging the pavements, just a gentle hum of locals and off-season visitors savouring the shoulder season peace.

Stepping inside was like slipping into a warm hug. The living room, with its exposed stone walls and inglenook fireplace already laid with kindling, screamed ‘cosy nights in’. I could practically hear the crackle before I even struck a match. Autumn’s early dusks meant the place glowed invitingly as I dumped my bags – fairy lights strung along the beams (a thoughtful touch from the hosts), and a basket of local treats waiting: Yorkshire park biscuits, a jar of proper Scarborough honey, and a bottle of ruby-red mulled wine cordial. I chuckled to myself, imagining summer me sweating it out here with windows flung wide; instead, this season wrapped it all in amber hues, the mullioned windows framing views of foliage turning russet outside.

First impressions? Blimey, it was spot-on for an autumn getaway. I wandered out to the pocket-sized garden – nothing fancy, just a paved patio with a couple of hardy shrubs clinging on, their leaves carpeting the ground like a crunchy quilt. From there, it was mere minutes to the South Sands, where the tide was out, exposing vast expanses of glistening sand under a low sun. The seasonal influence was everywhere: families flying kites in the brisk breeze, the castle ruins on the headland silhouetted against a pumpkin-orange sky, and the funicular railway chugging up the cliff with its cargo of rosy-cheeked day-trippers. I grabbed a bag of chips from a nearby hut – scalding hot, wrapped in yesterday’s paper – and perched on a bench, watching waves crash with that invigorating autumn roar. No stifling heat, just crisp air sharpening every sense.

Popping back to the Den for a brew, I fired up the Aga (a godsend in this weather) and settled into the squishy armchair by the window. The cottage’s nooks felt made for introspection – shelves groaning with dog-eared books on local smugglers and Whitby jet, a retro radio tuned to Radio York crooning folk tunes. Sat there, mug steaming, I had a quiet moment of self-reflection: life’s been a whirlwind lately, rushing about like a leaf in the gale, but here, in Foxes Den’s embrace, autumn slowed me down. It’s funny how a place can mirror the season – shedding the unnecessary, hunkering down for what matters. No plans beyond tomorrow’s cliff-top walk, but already, those first hours had me hooked. Scarborough in autumn? Pure poetry, and this little fox’s lair was the perfect den to savour it.