I set off from Cardiff on a grey October morning, the sort of day where the sky looks like it’s been wrung out but still can’t quite decide to rain. The satnav took me the scenic route through the Valleys, which was fine until I missed the turning for the lane and ended up reversing into a hedge. A helpful sheep watched the whole thing without comment. By the time I pulled up at Cabin No. 11 the light was already thinning, the hills around Port Talbot catching the last of the sun like someone had brushed them with bronze.

The cabin sat tucked against a low stone wall, its wooden cladding already darkening with the damp. A small porch light flicked on as I parked, and the first thing that struck me was the smell: woodsmoke from somewhere nearby, mixed with the clean, sharp scent of wet bracken. Inside it was warm in that instant, welcoming way holiday places manage when the heating’s been on just long enough. The owners had left a note on the table about the log burner and a little basket of logs, which felt oddly generous on a weekday when most places are half-empty.

I dumped my bag and stepped straight back out again; the light was fading fast and I wanted to see the view before it disappeared. From the deck the land dropped away into a patchwork of fields, the edges softened by mist that clung to the trees like breath on cold glass. A single robin hopped along the rail, unbothered by me or the season. It was the kind of evening that makes you notice how quickly the days are shrinking, how the hills seem to pull closer once the clocks change.

That first night I lit the burner more for the sound than the heat, the crackle filling the quiet while I heated soup on the little hob. Rain started not long after dark, gentle at first, then settling into the steady rhythm that South Wales seems to specialise in during autumn. I sat with the door open a crack, listening to it on the roof, watching the steam rise from my mug. There’s something about being indoors while the weather does its thing outside that makes you feel both small and oddly looked after.

Morning brought a different kind of light, soft and low, the sort that turns everything sepia. I wandered down the short path behind the cabin to a little stream that was running higher than usual after the night’s rain. The water was cold enough to make my fingers ache when I trailed them through it, but the air still carried that faint warmth that sometimes lingers in October before the real chill sets in. I found myself thinking about how many times I’d promised myself a proper break and then filled it with plans; this time there were none, and the absence felt like a small luxury.

Later I drove the five minutes into Port Talbot for milk and bread, the town looking almost cinematic under the low clouds, terraced streets climbing the hillside like steps. Back at the cabin I spent the afternoon with a book and the window open, the rain coming and going in soft bursts. Every so often the sun would break through just long enough to light up the ferns along the path, their fronds heavy with droplets that caught the light like tiny mirrors. It felt like the season itself was insisting I slow down, that this stretch of year between summer and winter had its own quiet agenda.

By the third morning the cabin felt almost lived-in. Condensation had gathered on the inside of the windows overnight, and I wiped a clear patch to watch the hills emerge from the mist. The robin was back on the rail, and I caught myself wondering whether it was the same one or whether they all just looked alike to town eyes. Either way, the familiarity was oddly comforting. Packing to leave, I realised I’d barely used half the logs and hadn’t once checked the time properly. The journey home would be the same roads in reverse, but something about the way the light moved across those fields had shifted the whole weekend into a different register. Not dramatic, not even particularly eventful, just enough to remind me that sometimes the best part of getting away is noticing how the year turns while you’re not looking.