I’ll never forget the drive to Saundersfoot last autumn – that crisp October weekend when the leaves were turning all shades of amber and gold, and the Pembrokeshire air already had that bracing bite that makes you pull your scarf a tad tighter. We’d set off from Narberth early, me behind the wheel of our trusty old Fiesta, with my partner fiddling with the sat-nav and a thermos of tea sloshing about in the passenger footwell. About five minutes in, disaster struck: I’d grabbed the wrong flask from the kitchen counter, and instead of builder’s tea, it was my experimental turmeric latte concoction from the night before. One accidental swig, and I was spluttering like a kettle on the boil, nearly veering off the narrow lane into a hedge. “Smooth driving, love,” she chuckled, as I wiped golden dribbles from my chin. Classic me – turning a simple journey into a comedy of errors before we’d even hit the coast.

By the time we trundled into Saundersfoot, the afternoon sun was low and hazy, painting the sea in that moody, metallic light you only get in late autumn. The village was buzzing quietly, families wrapped in woollies strolling the harbour with chips in hand, the scent of vinegar mingling with salty brine. We parked up near the beach – no faffing about with tourist traps, just a quick wander past the colourful beach huts before following the signs to The Heritage Park. Nestled in a peaceful spot just a stone’s throw from the sand, it felt like stumbling into a hidden nook, shielded from the wind that was whipping up off the bay.

Pulling up to The Hideaway, our little home for three days, I was gobsmacked. It’s one of those dog-friendly cottages that looks like it’s been plucked from a postcard – stone-built with a thatched roof, all cosy and compact, perfect for two. The autumn season had worked its magic here; the surrounding park was a riot of fallen leaves crunching underfoot, and the garden patio was dusted with the first hints of frost, making it feel like our own private woodland retreat. We let the dog out for a scamper, her tail wagging furiously as she chased rustling beech nuts, while we hauled our bags inside, the chill nipping at our heels.

Stepping through the door, it was like a warm hug after the sharp outdoor air. The open-plan living space was pure bliss – a wood-burning stove already set with kindling (we had it crackling in minutes), squashy sofas piled with tartan blankets, and a kitchenette stocked with all the essentials: fresh milk in the fridge, tea bags for days, and even a cheeky bottle of local Welsh gin waiting as a welcome touch. The beams overhead gave it that authentic, characterful vibe, and the big windows framed views of the park’s trees swaying gently, their branches skeletal against the fading light. First impressions? Spot on. It screamed “cosy autumn escape” – none of that summer holiday starkness; this was for hunkering down with hot chocolate as the evenings drew in early.

We didn’t waste time – straight out for that all-important first impression stroll down to Saundersfoot Beach, all of a five-minute plod away. The tide was out, revealing vast expanses of golden sand littered with seaweed and the odd crab shell, the sea a steely grey under overcast skies. October’s cooler temps meant no crowds, just us, the dog, and a handful of locals walking their spaniels. The wind tugged at our coats, turning cheeks rosy, but it was invigorating – that proper Welsh seaside freshness that clears the cobwebs. We paused at the harbour, watching fishing boats bob in the swell, and grabbed fish and chips from a takeaway shack, the batter extra crunchy in the brisk air. Eating them on a bench, paper steaming against the chill, felt like peak seasonal indulgence.

Back at The Hideaway as dusk fell – proper early, mind, by half four – we lit the stove properly, its glow dancing on the walls, and cracked open a bottle of red. The dog curled up by the hearth, and I had one of those gentle moments of reflection, staring into the flames. Life back home had been a whirlwind of work and worries, but here, in this unassuming cottage with autumn whispering outside, everything slowed. It was a reminder that sometimes the best holidays aren’t about dashing about, but savouring the quiet shift of seasons – the way October wraps you in melancholy magic, making even a mishap-filled drive feel like the start of something restorative. First impressions don’t get much better than this; I’m already plotting a return next leaf-fall.