We’d barely been on the road an hour when the sat-nav decided to send us down a lane that was more hedge than tarmac, and I had to reverse into a gateway to let a tractor past. By the time we reached the lodge in Penally the light was already fading, that soft, early-autumn kind that makes everything look slightly over-exposed. The cottage sat at the end of a short gravel track, its wooden cladding catching the last of the sun and the front door painted a cheerful duck-egg blue that felt almost too bright against the darkening fields.

The moment we stepped inside the warmth hit us, a steady, wood-scented heat that made the cool evening air outside seem suddenly distant. The owners had left the heating on low, and there was a note on the kitchen table suggesting we light the log burner if we fancied it. We did, of course, and spent the first half-hour scrabbling around for kindling like a pair of city folk who’d forgotten how to start a fire. Once the flames were crackling we opened a bottle of red and wandered through the three bedrooms, each one neat and simple, with thick curtains already drawn against the shortening days. It felt good to be somewhere that expected us to slow down.

The next morning the garden was heavy with dew and the air carried that unmistakable autumn bite. We pulled on fleeces and walked the short path into Tenby itself, no more than fifteen minutes on foot. The harbour looked almost monochrome under the low cloud, fishing boats bobbing gently while gulls wheeled and complained overhead. We bought pasties from the little bakery on the high street and ate them on the bench overlooking Castle Beach, watching a spaniel chase a tennis ball that kept disappearing into the foam. By midday the sun had broken through just enough to warm our faces, and we decided to drive the five minutes to Penally’s own beach. It was almost empty, the tide far out, leaving wide stretches of damp sand that squeaked under our boots. We collected a few shells without any real plan, then headed back to the lodge for tea and leftover pasty crumbs.

By the second evening the seasonal shift felt even more pronounced. The evenings drew in quickly, and we found ourselves drawn to the lodge’s small living room rather than venturing out again. I lit the burner while my partner made pasta, and we ate at the kitchen table with the door open just enough to let in the smell of woodsmoke and wet grass. Later we sat outside for ten minutes wrapped in blankets, listening to the occasional hoot of an owl somewhere beyond the hedge. There was something quietly restorative about not needing to fill the silence.

On the final morning I woke early and stepped into the garden with a mug of tea. Mist clung to the fields, softening the outlines of the distant hills, and the air smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke. I thought about how often I rush through autumn, treating it as a waiting room between summer and winter, when really it offers this gentle invitation to pause. Standing there, watching a robin hop along the fence, I felt oddly grateful for the simple fact of having nowhere else to be for three days. The lodge had done its quiet work; it had given us a small pocket of calm when the season itself was already urging us to slow down.