I’ll never forget the drive to Barmouth last autumn – that crisp October weekend when the leaves were turning all shades of amber and gold, and the air had that proper Welsh bite to it. Me and the missus piled into the car from Shrewsbury, windows down at first to catch the sea breeze, but by the time we hit the A496, the heavens opened. Not a dramatic storm, mind, just a typical Welsh drizzle that turned the windscreen into a smeary mess. And then the mishap: I misjudged a pothole near Llanbedr, sending my half-drunk Costa coffee flying right into the footwell. “Brilliant start, that,” she laughed, mopping it up with an old rag while I cursed under my breath. But honestly, it set the tone – nothing a bit of humour and a quick stop for fish and chips couldn’t fix.

By the time we rolled into Barmouth around teatime, the rain had eased into a soft mist, cloaking the town in that magical, ethereal light you only get in late autumn. The Mawddach Estuary shimmered like molten silver under the low sun, with the mountains of the Rhinogydd rising behind like ancient guardians dusted in frost. Barmouth’s beach stretched out empty and inviting, the tide out far enough to reveal those rippled sands that look like they’ve been combed by the sea itself. No summer crowds here – just us, a few dog walkers in wax jackets, and the distant cry of gulls. It felt like the town was exhaling after the tourist rush, handing the place over to proper explorers like us.

Ty Coed 63 sits right in the heart of it all, just a stone’s throw from the promenade on a quiet street lined with those classic Victorian terraces. Spotting it was easy – the little blue plaque and the flower baskets still hanging on, though a bit windswept and petal-stripped by the season. We parked up, grabbed our bags, and let ourselves in with the key safe code. First impressions? Cosy as a Welsh hearth. The door opened straight into a snug living room with a wood-burning stove already laid with kindling – perfect for shaking off the chill that autumn brings creeping in from the Irish Sea. The windows framed postcard views of the beach and those bobbing fishing boats, and the faint scent of sea salt mingled with the faint mustiness of a property that’s been properly aired but still holds onto that lived-in charm.

We dumped our stuff and cracked open a bottle of red – well, it was Friday, wasn’t it? – while I got the fire going. Crackle, pop, and suddenly the room glowed warm against the gathering dusk outside. Peeking into the kitchen, it was all we needed: a proper Aga humming away, stocked with tea towels and basics, and a window overlooking the back garden where leaves swirled in mini eddies. Upstairs, the bedrooms were simple but spot-on – our double with a view right over the roofs to the estuary, the bed piled high with quilts that screamed “snuggle down against the autumn gales.” The en-suite was compact, but who cares when the sea’s singing you to sleep?

Stepping out for that first evening wander, the seasonal shift hit home. The promenade was ours alone, the crazy golf course shuttered till spring, fairy lights twinkling early against the twilight. We nipped into Last Train for a pint – that town institution with its harbour views – and watched the sun dip behind the hills, painting the sky in fiery oranges before the chill drove us back. Huddled by the fire with cheese on toast, I had a quiet moment of reflection: life’s mad rush back home feels miles away here. In this little Ty Coed haven, with autumn wrapping Barmouth in its mellow embrace, it’s like the world slows down. No distractions, just the rhythm of tides and the whisper of wind through the dunes. Three days stretched ahead, but that arrival? Pure magic, mishap and all.