I have never been so grateful for a sat nav in my entire life, and I say that as someone who once got lost in their own local Tesco car park. The drive from Athens airport to Lygia Xylokastro should have taken about ninety minutes, but thanks to my stubborn refusal to trust technology and my brilliant decision to take what I called the scenic route, we added a solid hour of winding through olive groves that all looked identical. By the time we spotted the sea glinting through the cypress trees, I had already eaten all the emergency car snacks and was eyeing a packet of mints with genuine hunger.

We arrived in late October, which I now realise was the cleverest thing we accidentally did. The summer crowds had melted away like ice in a forgotten frappe, leaving the Peloponnese coast to breathe again. The property sat perched above a small cove, and I will be honest, my first thought was whether the photos had been overly generous. They had not been generous enough. The terrace unfolded before us like a stage set, all weathered stone and pots of geraniums that had clearly been through some things but were still putting on a brave show. The autumn light hit everything sideways, painting the white walls in shades of honey and amber that no filter could replicate.

My second thought, immediately after the breathtaking beauty, was that I had packed entirely wrong. I had prepared for Greek summer, which apparently means three pairs of shorts and a single cardigan purchased in a panic at the airport. October in the Peloponnese laughs at such preparations. The days still carried warmth enough to sit outside with a book, but the evenings arrived with a crispness that sent me rummaging through the wardrobe for anything with long sleeves. I ended up wearing my partner's fleece, which made me look like a small child dressing up in their father's clothes, but needs must when the sun dips behind those mountains.

The seasonal timing shaped everything we did. The taverna down in Lygia village was still open, just, run by a chap who seemed faintly surprised to see customers but rallied magnificently. He brought us grilled octopus that had been caught that morning, or so he claimed with a wink that suggested creative storytelling, and we ate it watching the last of the daylight drain from the sky. In July we would have been queuing for a table; in October we had his full attention and all the retsina he was determined we should try.

The swimming was another matter entirely. The property's description mentioned a beach, which technically existed, but the October sea requires a certain robustness of character that I discovered I do not possess. My partner went in up to his knees and emerged looking like he had seen things. I contented myself with walking the shoreline collecting stones that the winter storms would soon reclaim, feeling smug about my sensible choices while secretly envying his brief moment of bravado.

What struck me most, wandering the quiet lanes around Xylokastro, was how the season revealed the place's true rhythm. The summer visitors see the performance, all fireworks and full restaurants and packed beaches. October showed me the rehearsal, the locals gathering firewood and bringing in their last tomatoes, the fishing boats being mended rather than launched. I felt briefly like an intruder, then accepted that they tolerated us with the same patient goodwill they extended to the weather.

Sitting on that terrace on our final evening, wrapped in blankets and drinking something local that tasted of herbs and patience, I understood something about myself I had not before. I am not a summer person, however much I pretend otherwise. I need the edge of things, the turning season, the places when they are honest rather than performing. The sat nav got us there eventually, and October made it worth the journey.