I have never been so grateful for a ferry timetable in my life. There we were, my partner and I, standing at the Port of Pozzuoli in late October with our suitcases, watching the Ischia-bound ferry pull away exactly three minutes before we reached the gate. The autumn wind off the Bay of Naples had that particular bite to it, the kind that makes you question every life choice that led you to this moment. We had misread the schedule, plain and simple. Classic us, really. The next ferry gave us an hour to kill, which we spent huddled in a cafe eating pastries that were far too good for a service station, plotting how we would style this out as intentional when we finally arrived.

The crossing itself was glorious in that muted, end-of-season way. The summer crowds had long vanished, leaving the deck almost empty. I stood at the railing watching Vesuvius fade into a hazy silhouette, feeling smug about our timing despite the earlier cock-up. October in Campania is not the Italy of postcards, all blazing sun and gelato queues. It is something softer, more forgiving, and I was beginning to suspect we had chosen better than we knew.

Lacco Ameno revealed itself gradually as the ferry rounded the island's northern tip. The famous mushroom rock, Il Fungo, sat there in the late afternoon light looking thoroughly unbothered by centuries of tourists photographing it. Our holiday home was tucked into the hillside above the town centre, a climb that felt considerably more ambitious with luggage than the website photographs had suggested. The owner, a wiry man called Salvatore who spoke rapid Campanian dialect that my rusty Italian could barely parse, met us with keys and a string of apologies about the heating. It was not quite cold enough to need it, he explained, but not warm enough to do without entirely. This is Ischia in autumn, he said, shrugging with the philosophical acceptance I would soon adopt myself.

The house itself was simple and honest, the sort of place that makes you immediately want to open every shutter and see what the light does. We did exactly that, and the view stopped us mid-unpacking. The bay stretched below, still busy with fishing boats making their evening returns, the water that particular Mediterranean blue that seems almost aggressive in its beauty. But the light was different from summer, lower and more golden, casting long shadows across the terraced gardens that clung to the slopes. Everything felt held in suspension, the island caught between the memory of busy months and the quiet approach of winter.

That first evening, we walked down to the harbour for dinner because the guidebook said we should, but also because the downhill prospect was infinitely more appealing than the return climb we were postponing. Most restaurants were still open, though several had already taped handwritten notes to their doors announcing closure dates in November. The seasonal rhythm here is not subtle. Lacco Ameno lives and dies by the thermal tourism that fills its hotels and spas from spring through early autumn. By late October, the town was performing its annual exhalation, shrinking back to its essential self.

We found a trattoria where the waiter seemed genuinely surprised to see us, then delighted, then slightly concerned we might not finish the portions he was determined to serve. I ate grilled fish that had been swimming that morning, while my partner worked through a plate of pasta e fagioli that steamed aggressively in the cooling air. The terrace heaters were on full blast, creating these strange pockets of tropical warmth against the encroaching autumn chill. Other diners, what few there were, sat inside by now. We stubbornly remained outside, wrapped in blankets the staff provided with the resigned air of people who have learned not to argue with British tourists.

Walking back up the hill afterwards, the mishaps of the day settled into something like contentment. The ferry mistake, the heating confusion, the unexpected climb, they all felt part of a particular kind of travel that only happens when you step slightly out of season. Summer in Ischia promises certainty: sun, crowds, booked tables, reliable ferry schedules. Autumn offers no such guarantees, and I found I preferred it that way. The island felt borrowed rather than rented, shared in confidence rather than displayed for inspection.

I fell asleep that first night to the sound of waves and some distant dog, the windows cracked just enough to let in air that smelled of pine and salt and something faintly sulphurous from the thermal springs that bubble up all over this volcanic place. Tomorrow we would explore properly, find the thermal parks still open, walk the coastal path before the winter storms made it impassable. But for now, there was just this: a quiet house, a cooling island, and the particular pleasure of arriving somewhere exactly when you were meant to, even if the ferry timetable initially suggested otherwise.