I’ll never forget the drive to The Hen Pen in late autumn – that crisp October weekend when Pembrokeshire wraps itself in a golden haze, and you can practically taste the woodsmoke in the air before you’ve even unpacked. We’d set off from Carmarthen early, the kids buzzing in the back with crisps and iPads, me navigating via a dodgy sat-nav that decided halfway through to announce we were “arriving now” while we were still miles from Llanfyrnach. Classic me – I’d forgotten to charge it properly, so we ended up looping past the same sheep-dotted field twice, laughing as the little ones declared it “the world’s longest treasure hunt”. By the time we crested the hill and spotted the cottage nestled in its quiet corner near Crymych, the low sun was painting the Preseli Hills in fiery oranges, and I was already smitten.

Pulling up to The Hen Pen felt like stumbling into a hug from an old mate. It’s one of those proper Welsh farm cottages, all wonky stone walls and a thatched roof that looks like it’s been there since the druids were knocking about. Late autumn’s magic hit us straight away – the garden was a riot of rustling leaves in shades of copper and crimson, with a massive chestnut tree dropping its spiky treasures everywhere. I crunched through them on the gravel path, grinning like an idiot, while the air carried that sharp, earthy tang of damp moss and distant bonfires. No summer crowds here, just the peaceful hush of the season settling in, broken only by the occasional crow cawing from the hedges.

Inside, the first impressions were pure cosiness overload, tailored perfectly to those shortening days. We dumped the bags in the beamed living room, where a wood-burning stove was already set with kindling – a godsend as the afternoon chill crept in. I lit it up (after a minor faff with the matches, nearly singeing my sleeve – light the paper first, folks, lesson learned), and within minutes the flames were dancing, casting a warm glow over the squishy sofas and the big farmhouse table. The smell of burning applewood mingled with the sea salt breeze sneaking through the half-open windows, reminding us we weren’t far from the coast, even if it was just a whisper away on this inland perch. October’s mellow light filtered through the leaded windows, turning everything honey-gold, and I couldn’t help but pause for a quiet moment of reflection: how often do we rush through life without savouring these simple shifts? Here, with the world outside fading into twilight by 5pm, it forced you to slow down, brew a proper cuppa, and just breathe.

The kitchen was a dream for autumnal pottering – slate floors cool underfoot, a Rayburn humming away, stocked with local jams and teabags that screamed “stay and make soup”. We raided the fridge for pasties from the nearby Crymych shop (spot on, those), and while the kids explored the quirky nooks – like the tiny loft ladder they pretended was a pirate ship – I stuck my head out the back door. The garden sloped gently to a paddock where a few hens pecked about (hence the name, I suppose), their feathers fluffed against the nippy wind. Fallen apples dotted the grass, free for the picking, and I gathered a bowlful, imagining crumbles for pudding. The season shaped every bit of it: no frantic beach days, but instead that intimate glow of evenings in, wrapped in blankets, watching leaves swirl in the gathering dusk.

Wandering just a stone’s throw to the nearby stream – you hear it babbling from the garden – we skimmed stones under a canopy of turning oaks, the water icy from recent rains. Light humour ensued when I slipped on wet moss, landing bum-first in a puddle; the family’s howls still echo in my ears. Back at the cottage, as stars pricked the ink-black sky earlier than expected, we toasted marshmallows on the stove, the sticky sweetness cutting through the chill. The Hen Pen’s first impressions? A seasonal embrace – autumn in Pembrokeshire at its finest, turning a three-day getaway into a lesson in lingering. Can’t wait to go back.