We’d barely left the M4 when the sat-nav decided to take us on a scenic detour through half a dozen tiny lanes, and I managed to clip a hedge with the wing mirror. A few leaves fluttered onto the windscreen like confetti, and my partner laughed so hard she nearly spilled the coffee. By the time we pulled up outside Glamping Tri Pod 3, the early-October sun was already low and buttery, turning the whole Gower headland gold.

The pod itself sat tucked behind a low stone wall, its canvas stretched taut and its little wooden deck scattered with fallen beech leaves. Inside, the wood-burner was already crackling, and the kettle was on the hob before we’d even unpacked the car. That first cup of tea, drunk with the door open so the crisp air could mix with the pine-scented warmth, set the tone for the whole stay.

October light does strange things to the coast. It arrives late and leaves early, so every view feels borrowed. From the deck we could see the sweep of Rhossili Bay turning pewter as the tide pulled out, and the occasional walker on the cliffs looked like a cut-out against the sky. We spent the rest of that first afternoon simply sitting there, wrapped in blankets, watching the colours shift. A robin kept landing on the deck rail, tilting its head as if checking whether we’d left any crumbs.

Dinner was nothing fancy—just local sausages from the farm shop down the lane, cooked on the little gas hob and eaten at the tiny table while rain began to patter on the canvas. The sound was oddly soothing, like fingers drumming on a drum skin, and it made the pod feel even cosier. After pudding we stepped outside again; the rain had stopped, and the sky had cleared enough for a thin slice of moon to appear above the ridge. The air smelled of wet bracken and woodsmoke, and for a moment I felt oddly small in the best way, as if the season had gently reminded me that we were just passing through.

The next morning the light was different again—sharper, almost metallic. We walked the short path down to the beach, boots crunching over damp sand, and found the rock pools still full from the night’s rain. A few hardy surfers were already out, their wetsuits bright against the grey-green swell. Back at the pod we lit the burner once more and read for hours, the pages of our books occasionally lifted by the breeze that found its way under the canvas. I kept catching myself staring at the way the autumn sun caught the condensation on the windows, turning each droplet into a tiny prism.

By the final evening the temperature had dropped enough for us to need two blankets each. We cooked a simple chilli, opened a bottle of red, and sat outside until the stars appeared. The Milky Way was startlingly clear above the pod, and I found myself thinking how rarely I notice the sky at home. Here, with no streetlights and only the soft hiss of the sea in the distance, it felt unavoidable.

On the drive back the next day I realised the mishap with the hedge had been the perfect start. It had jolted me out of the usual rush, and the season had done the rest—slowing everything down, sharpening the edges of each view, and leaving me quietly grateful for three short days spent watching the light change.