We set off for 16 Heritage Park in Tenby on a blustery October afternoon, the kind where the sea air already smells of salt and leaf mulch. A few miles shy of the town the sat-nav decided to reroute us down a single-track lane that ended in a muddy farmyard; we reversed out with a cheerful farmer waving us back the way we’d come, both of us laughing at how easily technology can misplace you. By the time we pulled up at the neat row of stone cottages in Heritage Park, the light had turned that soft pewter-grey that only Welsh autumns seem to manage.

The front door opened straight into a low-ceilinged sitting room that felt instantly welcoming. A wood-burner was already laid, and the faint scent of last night’s logs lingered under the smell of fresh coffee from the kitchenette. We dumped our bags, flicked the kettle on, and wandered straight out again; the pull of the sea was too strong to resist. Tenby’s harbour lay just five minutes downhill, its pastel houses glowing against the slate-coloured water. Fishing boats rocked gently at their moorings while a lone cormorant perched on a buoy, wings spread like a damp umbrella.

Back at the cottage, we unpacked proper jumpers rather than the T-shirts we’d optimistically packed. October had stripped the garden borders of most colour, leaving only the deep green of rosemary and the last brave roses against the wall. Inside, though, the radiators hummed and the underfloor heating in the bathroom made stepping out of the shower a genuine pleasure. We lit the fire early, pulled two armchairs closer, and watched the flames while rain tapped the skylight above the stairs.

That first evening we strolled along the North Beach promenade, hoods up against a fine drizzle that felt more like mist than proper rain. Fairy lights strung between lamp-posts gave everything a cosy glow, and the handful of cafés still open served bowls of cawl so thick the spoon stood up. We ate slowly, listening to a couple at the next table swapping stories about summer crowds, grateful that we had the quieter season to ourselves.

Next morning the weather turned properly Welsh. A steady wind whipped white horses across Carmarthen Bay, and we decided the sensible thing was to explore the town’s narrow streets instead of the cliffs. We wandered past the medieval town walls, ducked into a tiny bookshop that smelled of damp paper, and bought a second-hand Ordnance Survey map for the cottage coffee table. Later, back at Heritage Park, we noticed how the low sun caught the stonework of the neighbouring cottages, turning them the colour of shortbread for a brief, golden half-hour before the clouds closed again.

By the third day we’d settled into an easy rhythm: morning coffee by the fire, a brisk walk along the harbour wall while the tide was out, then back to read or simply watch the sky change. I found myself thinking how rarely we slow down enough to notice the small seasonal shifts—the way the light fades earlier, how the gulls seem louder when there are fewer people to compete with, the comforting weight of an extra blanket at night. Standing at the sitting-room window, watching the streetlights come on along the lane, I realised that arriving in October had given us Tenby in its everyday clothes rather than its summer finery, and somehow that felt like the real introduction.