I have never been particularly good at reading ferry timetables, a fact that became painfully obvious somewhere between Svendborg and Faaborg when I realised I had been staring at the summer schedule while travelling in late October. The helpful woman at the terminal simply handed me a winter timetable and said, "You are not the first," which I found both comforting and faintly embarrassing.

The drive from the ferry to our holiday home took us through Funen's patchwork of farmland and coastal inlets, the late autumn light turning everything a sort of honeyed bronze. Fields of recently harvested crops stretched away on either side, the stubble catching the low sun. It was that particular Danish autumn quality where everything feels slightly muted, slightly held in reserve, as if the whole island is taking a deep breath before winter arrives.

We found the property down a narrow lane, flanked by trees that had mostly given up their leaves. The house sat among them with a satisfying solidity, red roof tiles and weathered wood that spoke of many Danish winters endured. My partner immediately noted the outdoor furniture still stacked against the wall, cushions stored away, the barbecue under a tarpaulin. "No al fresco dining then," she said, stating the obvious with the particular cheerfulness people adopt when stating the obvious.

The key was exactly where promised, and stepping inside brought that particular pleasure of warmth after autumn chill. The house smelled of wood and something faintly maritime, that unavoidable coastal dampness that no amount of heating entirely dispels in October. I found this rather romantic. My partner found it less so and immediately located every radiator, cranking them to what she considered civilised levels.

What struck me most was how the season dictated everything about our first hours there. The daylight was already fading at four in the afternoon, pressing against the windows, making the lit rooms feel like small ships of warmth in a gathering dark. We moved between kitchen and living room, unpacking provisions from the Kvickly in Faaborg, conscious of not wanting to venture out again. The supermarket's selection of root vegetables and heavy bread suddenly made perfect sense. This was not a time for light salads and white wine on terraces.

I caught myself standing at the kitchen window, mug of tea in hand, watching a squirrel make frantic last-minute preparations among the leaf litter. There was something in its urgency that resonated. We too were making our preparations, our small domestic nesting, building up our reserves against the short days ahead. The house encouraged this rhythm. Its thick walls and small-paned windows spoke of a design philosophy that understood Danish October perfectly, that did not pretend summer was anything but a memory.

By evening we had the fire going, somewhat inexpertly, sending smoke signals to any neighbours patient enough to interpret them. The flames caught eventually, and we sat with glasses of the heavier red we had thoughtfully purchased, feeling rather pleased with our primitive skills. Outside, the darkness was complete, rural darkness, the sort that makes you understand why Scandinavians invented hygge out of sheer necessity.

I had worried slightly about booking an off-season stay, wondering if we would miss the obvious pleasures of summer Denmark. But sitting there, slightly smoky, thoroughly warm, watching flames consume properly seasoned beech, I understood something about seasonal travel I had not before. The house revealed itself differently in autumn. It became a shelter rather than a base, its qualities of enclosure and warmth paramount rather than incidental. We were not passing through it to somewhere else, to beaches or harbour towns or outdoor cafes. The house was the destination, the season our companion rather than our obstacle.

The rain started sometime after nine, that persistent Danish autumn rain that sounds like patience itself. We opened another bottle, slightly shamefaced, and listened to it against the windows, against the roof, against the last stubborn leaves still clinging to the branches outside. Tomorrow we would explore Faaborg properly, walk the harbour perhaps, visit the museum if the weather insisted. But for now, we were exactly where the season wanted us, enclosed and content, temporary Danes in our temporary home, understanding something about this landscape we might have missed in the easy abundance of summer.