The trouble began, as it so often does, with me being absolutely convinced I knew better than the sat nav. I had decided that the A16 towards Dunkirk looked far too straightforward, and that a scenic detour through the backroads of French Flanders would be far more romantic in late October. Three wrong turns, one extremely narrow bridge that I am still not convinced was meant for cars, and a sudden downpour that made my windscreen wipers sound like they were having some kind of breakdown later, I finally crossed into Belgium proper and found myself crawling along the N34 towards Lombardsijde.

By this point the afternoon light was doing that particular thing it does on the Flanders coast in autumn - all pale gold and long shadows, with the North Sea somewhere out to my left looking decidedly grey and purposeful. I had been aiming for a cheerful midday arrival, perhaps with a coffee on the terrace and a stroll to get my bearings. Instead I pulled up to the holiday home at half four, clutching a lukewarm can of fizzy drink from a petrol station, with my hair doing something extraordinary from the combination of car heating and earlier rain.

The property sat in that satisfying Flemish way - neat brick, sensible windows, a garden that had clearly been loved in summer but was now settling into its winter rest. The key safe code worked first time, which felt like a minor miracle given my day, and I stepped inside to that particular hush that holiday homes have in the off-season. No previous guests' chatter lingering in the air, no overheated bustle from peak summer. Just quiet, and the faint smell of clean linen, and the immediate realisation that I had completely failed to pack enough warm socks.

I had chosen October partly for the rates, I will admit, and partly because I fancied myself as the sort of person who appreciated the melancholy charm of the Belgian coast out of season. There is a particular pride in this, I think, in visiting places when they are not trying their hardest to please you. The promenade at nearby Nieuwpoort would be largely empty. The beachfront fish restaurants would be serving their bouillabaisse to locals rather than queues of tourists. The North Sea wind would be properly bracing, the sort that makes your eyes water and feels somehow honest.

Standing in the kitchen that first evening, heating up a simple pasta while the dark came down early outside, I felt that odd shift that happens when travel plans go slightly awry and you realise you are actually rather glad about it. The mishaps of the journey had stripped away any pretence of a polished holiday. I was not going to be the person who posted sun-drenched terrace photos. I was going to be the person who borrowed the property's umbrella for a windswept walk on an almost deserted beach, who read books in the afternoon because the light faded too early for much else, who cooked simple meals and went to bed at sensible times because the darkness outside suggested it.

The heating in the holiday home worked beautifully, which I appreciated more than I would have in July. The blankets were plentiful. The next morning I woke to that particular coastal autumn light - bright but thin, promising nothing in the way of warmth - and made coffee in the small kitchen with the intention of sitting outside until common sense prevailed. I managed about four minutes on the terrace, wrapped in a throw I had dragged from the sofa, before retreating indoors with my mug and absolutely no regrets.

There is something about the Belgian coast in autumn that strips away performance. The seaside towns along this stretch - Nieuwpoort-Bad, Middelkerke further along - know exactly what they are without the summer crowds to perform for. The architecture is still that curious Flemish mix of the grand and the practical. The sea is still there, doing whatever the North Sea does, which in late October appeared to be mostly looking cold and slightly annoyed. But the whole rhythm changes. The cyclists on the coastal path are serious ones in proper gear, not families wobbling along. The beach becomes a vast empty space that belongs properly to dog walkers and the occasional hardy soul with a metal detector.

I spent my first full day doing very little of what I had planned. The museum in Nieuwpoort, the harbour walk, the proper exploration of the town - all deferred. Instead I walked to the local bakery in a fine drizzle, practiced my terrible French on a patient shopkeeper who clearly spoke perfect English, and spent an hour watching the sea from the shelter of a beachfront pavilion that had seen better days and seemed entirely unbothered about it. The seasonal emptiness meant I could sit there with my paper-wrapped pastry without feeling I was taking up space meant for someone more purposeful.

By evening, back at the holiday home with the heating ticking and the darkness complete by six, I found myself reflecting on how rarely I allow myself this kind of unstructured time. The summer holiday mindset is so often about maximising, about seeing and doing and capturing. The autumn coast, with its early nights and its suggestion that perhaps one should just be still for a moment, offers something else entirely. I had arrived flustered and slightly absurd, my romantic detour having backfired, my plans already in disarray. But the season, with its particular Flemish restraint, seemed to say that this was perfectly acceptable. More than that - it was appropriate.

I went to bed that first night with the sound of wind in the garden, the heating set to sensible Belgian efficiency, and the satisfied tiredness that comes from a day that has not gone to plan but has gone somewhere genuine instead. The morning would bring more of the same pale light, more of the same quiet, more of the same invitation to move slowly through a place that was not trying to be anything other than what it was in late October. I was beginning to think I might actually be the sort of person who appreciated the melancholy charm of the Belgian coast out of season after all. Or at least, I was willing to keep pretending until the week was out.