I should have known the Harz would have the last laugh when I packed three jumpers and left them on the kitchen table in Leeds. There I was, chugging through Lower Saxony on a train that smelled faintly of diesel and someone's disappointing sandwich, watching the landscape turn from flat farmland to proper hills, and suddenly realising my suitcase contained nothing warmer than a thin fleece and misplaced optimism. It was late November, the kind of month that sits between autumn's last golden gasp and winter's proper arrival, and I had essentially brought a summer holiday wardrobe to a mountain region.

The journey from Hanover had been straightforward enough until we reached Wernigerode, where I changed for the local train to Thale. That final stretch clattered through bare forests where every tree stood stripped and waiting, branches like fingers pointing at a sky the colour of old dishwater. I pressed my forehead against the cold window and watched my breath fog the glass, already drafting the mental complaint I would file against myself.

The property sat on the edge of Thale, a solid-looking place with timber framing that seemed to huddle against the hillside. My host had left the key in a small wooden box, and I fumbled with frozen fingers while the wind did its best to rearrange my hair. The door opened onto warmth and the faint smell of wood polish, and I stood in the hallway for a full minute just absorbing the sensation of not being outside anymore.

What struck me first was how the late autumn light transformed everything. The windows faced southwest, and for perhaps forty minutes each afternoon, if the clouds parted, a thin golden light flooded the living room and turned the wooden floorboards the colour of honey. I found myself planning my days around this brief illumination, like some pagan worshipper of a very unreliable sun. The rest of the time, the rooms sat in a grey twilight that made reading easy but photography pointless. I took twelve pictures on my first day and deleted eleven.

The seasonal timing meant the famous Hexentanzplatz, that witch-themed plateau above the town, sat largely deserted. The cable car still ran on weekends but creaked in a way that suggested even the machinery found the cold unnecessary. I walked up instead, one morning when frost still silvered the shaded paths, and found the viewing platform empty except for a single other walker who nodded at me with the solemn recognition of two people who had chosen poorly in the footwear department. The Bode Valley stretched below, the river running dark and quick between cliffs where waterfalls would freeze solid within weeks. Even now, thin icicles hung from the rock faces like unfinished decorations.

Back at the property, I discovered the heating system required a degree in engineering and the patience of a saint. The radiators gurgled and hissed through the evenings, occasionally achieving warmth, more often producing sounds like a drowning accordion. I wore my thin fleece, both borrowed blankets from the cupboard, and developed a newfound respect for Germans who apparently considered this normal. The kitchen, though, proved excellent for soup-making, and I spent happy hours chopping vegetables while darkness fell at half past four and the windows became black mirrors reflecting my steamy culinary efforts.

The local shops in Thale sold heavy woollen socks and I bought two pairs, wearing them immediately with a satisfaction that bordered on smug. The bakery near the river provided still-warm bread each morning, and I developed a routine of fetching it while the town lay quiet, the pavement glittering with frost, my breath visible in great clouds. Other walkers appeared, bundled and brisk, exchanging brief greetings before hurrying onward. No one lingered. November here was not for lingering.

One afternoon, the promised sunshine arrived unexpectedly. I rushed out to the small terrace behind the property, coffee in hand, and sat on the damp wooden bench for exactly seven minutes before retreating. The light was beautiful, truly, but the temperature had not received the same memo. I watched from the window instead, the steam from my cup rising, as the hillside opposite turned momentarily golden before the clouds regrouped and the grey returned.

That evening, I built a fire in the small stove, using wood from the neat stack outside that had been covered against rain but still managed to be slightly damp. The smoke detector voiced its opinion twice before I mastered the airflow. I sat with my soup and my borrowed blanket and felt an unexpected contentment. The season had forced a slowing, a turning inward, that my usual holidays rarely allowed. There were no crowds to navigate, no pressure to sightsee aggressively, just the rhythm of short days and long evenings and the particular quiet of a place waiting for winter.

I thought about those abandoned jumpers in Leeds and almost thanked myself for the oversight. The borrowed blanket, the woollen socks, the slight absurdity of my underpreparation had become part of the story, something to laugh about over the hissing radiator with its drowning accordion song. The Harz in late autumn asked nothing more than that you meet it on its own terms, dressed inadequately or not, and find what warmth you could in the small golden moments it offered between the grey.