I set off from Cardiff on a bright but blustery October morning, the kind that makes you think you’ve packed just right until you realise you’ve left the spare car key on the kitchen table. A quick dash back inside, a bit of mild panic, and we were finally on our way, the satnav cheerfully rerouting us through narrow lanes that grew narrower still as we neared Tenby. By the time we reached Lodge 53, the light was already softening, the sort of gentle dusk that only seems to happen in Pembrokeshire in autumn.

The cottage sat quietly at the edge of a small development just outside Narberth, its slate roof catching the last of the sun and its windows already glowing warmly from within. We’d chosen October deliberately, hoping for quieter beaches and lower prices, and the gamble paid off the moment we stepped inside. The heating had been left on low, so the place felt lived-in rather than chilly, and the faint scent of woodsmoke from next door’s chimney drifted through the open door. Outside, the garden was a patchwork of fallen leaves in every shade of rust and gold; stepping onto the deck felt like crunching through someone’s carefully arranged art installation.

That first evening we wandered the short distance into Narberth itself, coats zipped against the sharpening air. The little high street was already dressed for the season, with shop windows displaying pumpkins and woollen scarves, and the pubs offering hearty bowls of cawl that tasted even better after the drive. We found a corner table at the Angel, ordered too many chips, and spent an hour watching locals come and go, their conversations punctuated by the occasional gust rattling the old sash windows. It struck me, not for the first time, how much cosier everything feels when the days are shortening; even the simplest meal seems like an event when you’re grateful for warmth.

Back at the lodge, we pulled the curtains early and lit the wood burner that had been thoughtfully stocked with logs. The crackle and occasional pop became the soundtrack to our unpacking, and I found myself lingering in the glow rather than reaching for my phone. October light has a way of making you slow down whether you planned to or not. Through the glass doors we could just make out the outlines of the hills beyond, already darkening into silhouettes against a sky the colour of wet slate.

The next morning brought a soft, persistent drizzle that never quite turned into proper rain, the sort that leaves everything looking freshly washed. We decided against the beach after all and instead followed a footpath that started practically at the end of the lane, winding through fields where sheep stood stoically under dripping hedges. By midday the clouds had lifted just enough for a weak sun to appear, turning the wet grass into a mirror of fleeting light. We stopped at a farm gate, shared a flask of tea, and watched a red kite wheel overhead, its wings catching the sudden brightness. It felt like a private performance arranged especially for two slightly damp walkers who’d almost stayed indoors.

That afternoon we drove the five minutes down to Saundersfoot, where the harbour looked half asleep under its covering of fishing boats. A single café remained open, its windows steamed up from the inside, and we claimed the last table for toasted teacakes and strong coffee. The owner mentioned that the summer crowds had long gone, leaving the village to the locals and the occasional off-season visitor like us. Sitting there, watching gulls pick over the tideline, I caught myself thinking how rarely I notice the changing seasons when I’m at home; here, every shift in the light or the wind seemed worth commenting on.

By our final evening the temperature had dropped enough for hats and gloves on even the shortest stroll. We walked a loop around the lodge’s little green, the air smelling of wet earth and woodsmoke, and paused to watch lights come on in distant farmhouses. There was something quietly satisfying about being here when the tourist season had packed up and left; the landscape felt more like it belonged to itself, and we were simply borrowing a corner of it for three days. As we turned back towards the warm glow of Lodge 53, I realised that the mishap with the car key at the start had been the perfect introduction to a weekend that kept reminding me to slow down, look up, and notice what the season was quietly offering.