The sat nav gave up somewhere between Toulouse and nowhere, which is how I found myself reversing down a narrow lane bordered by sunflowers that had seen better days. It was late September, that awkward in-between season when summer has packed its bags but autumn has not quite moved in. I had been warned about French country directions, but nothing prepares you for the reality of a dirt track that your brain insists is a footpath, while your rental car's suspension begs to differ.

I was hunting for a marquefave, one of those traditional stone farmhouses that dot the Midi-Pyrenees like scattered dice. The one I had booked sat somewhere in the rolling countryside west of Toulouse, and I had romantic visions of arriving to golden light, perhaps a local farmer tipping his cap. Instead I arrived to grey skies and a farmer on a tractor who looked at me with the weary patience of someone who has watched too many British drivers ruin their hedgerows.

The marquefave itself appeared suddenly, tucked behind a copse of chestnut trees that were just beginning to turn. The stone was the colour of old honey, and the whole building seemed to sag slightly into the earth, as if it had decided after centuries that standing up straight was too much effort. I later learned this is entirely normal and charming, though at the time I wondered if my holiday budget had stretched to a ruin.

The key was where the owner had promised: under a terracotta pot beside the well, which felt deliciously illicit until I realised half the local wildlife had probably investigated it first. The door creaked open to reveal a kitchen that smelled of woodsmoke and disuse, the particular scent of a house that has been waiting. September is closing season in these parts, that last gasp before the properties are shuttered for winter. You can feel it in the cooler morning air, in the way the light slants differently through the windows by four in the afternoon.

I made the classic error of immediately trying to light the wood-burning stove, because the stone floors were surprisingly cold against my sandals. Forty minutes of theatrical coughing and one mildly singed eyebrow later, I conceded defeat and put the kettle on the electric hob instead. There is something humbling about failing at basic rural skills while surrounded by evidence of generations who managed perfectly well. I stood there with my tea, looking out at the garden where tomato plants were collapsing under the weight of fruit that would never ripen now, and felt the particular melancholy of late summer's end.

The swimming pool was still technically open, covered by a solar blanket that had collected a week's worth of leaves. I did not swim. The water would have been that challenging temperature that makes you gasp and question your life choices. Instead I walked the perimeter, barefoot on grass that was damp with evening dew already, noting how the surrounding maize fields had turned from green to parchment brown almost overnight.

That first evening, I sat on the terrace with a bottle of local Fronton wine and watched bats emerge from the eaves. The owner had left a bowl of late figs from the garden tree, soft and split with sweetness. They were almost too far gone, which somehow made them perfect for the time of year. Everything here was in transition: the crickets still noisy but thinning out, the swallows gathering on the telephone wires in obvious preparation for departure.

I went to bed early, under a duvet that was slightly too heavy for the temperature but would prove necessary by morning. The house creaked and settled around me, centuries of seasonal rhythms continuing regardless of my presence. I woke once to absolute darkness, no light pollution for miles, and the distant sound of a dog fox somewhere in the fields.

The mishap with the sat nav, the failed fire, the unswum pool: these were the small defeats of arrival, the necessary negotiations with a place that operates on its own calendar. September in the Midi-Pyrenees does not perform for tourists. It is honest, slightly worn, generous with its remaining warmth but absolutely clear that better days have passed. I found I rather liked it for that. There is a relief in visiting somewhere that is not trying to be its best self, that simply is what the season demands.

The next morning I managed the stove on my second attempt, and the kitchen filled with proper heat at last. I sat with coffee and watched mist lift from the valley below, revealing the same view that had greeted shepherds and farmers for generations. The marquefave had not changed. I was the one who needed to adjust my expectations, to match my pace to the slowing rhythm of early autumn in rural France.