I have never been so pleased to see a tumble dryer in all my life, and that is saying something for a man who once got excited about a particularly efficient vacuum cleaner. But we are getting ahead of ourselves. Let me take you back to the beginning, or rather, to the bit where I confidently marched out of Cagliari Airport in late October wearing nothing but a linen shirt and a pair of shorts, having checked the forecast approximately never.

The drive north to Stintino took the best part of three hours, winding through countryside that had clearly received the memo about autumn while I had not. The Sardinian interior in late October is a study in golden grasses and dusty greens, the summer crowds long vanished, the landscape settling into a slower rhythm. I kept telling myself the chill was just the car air conditioning. It was not the car air conditioning.

We arrived at the property as the afternoon light was doing that magical low-angle thing it does in autumn, stretching shadows across the terrace and making the whole place look like something from a glossy brochure. The house sat quietly at the end of a lane, surrounded by scrubby Mediterranean vegetation that had started to turn the colour of old parchment. My partner, who had actually bothered to pack a jumper, gave me a look that spoke volumes and contained at least three swear words.

The first job was the supermarket run, because late October in Stintino means reduced hours, limited restaurant openings, and a general sense that the whole village is slowly exhaling after a busy summer. We found the local shop still operating on its shortened autumn timetable, shelves stocked with the essentials but missing the frantic energy of peak season. I bought pasta, tomatoes, a bottle of Cannonau, and what I believed to be a sensible long-sleeved top that turned out to be a child's size large. The woman at the till found this hilarious. I found it less so, but needs must when the temperature drops below twenty degrees and your entire wardrobe philosophy has collapsed.

Back at the house, the seasonal reality became properly apparent. The pool, still technically open, had that abandoned look of something waiting for winter cover. The outdoor furniture sat under a light scattering of leaves from the nearby pines. But inside, the place was a revelation. Thick walls, proper shutters, a fireplace we would absolutely be using later. This was clearly a house designed by people who understood that Sardinian winters, while mild, are still winters. I stood in the kitchen in my inadequate linen shirt and felt something close to gratitude for whoever had installed the heating.

That evening, we cooked simple food and ate it on the covered terrace, wrapped in blankets we found in a cupboard, watching the sky turn through shades of pink and orange that apparently only improve as the year advances. The summer haze had gone, replaced by crystalline clarity. You could see for miles across the water to Asinara island, its outline sharp against the darkening blue. My partner produced a second jumper from her seemingly bottomless bag of sensible clothing. I accepted it without comment. Dignity is overrated when you are cold.

The morning brought proper understanding of why people choose this time of year. We walked down to La Pelosa beach, perhaps ten minutes away, and found perhaps a dozen other souls across the entire stretch of sand. The famous shallow turquoise water had deepened to something more serious, more Atlantic in character, but no less beautiful for that. The lifeguard towers stood empty, the beach bars closed up, the whole place feeling like a private discovery. I paddled briefly and confirmed that my shorts were, if anything, even more inappropriate than they had been the day before.

By day three, I had embraced the season properly. Early mornings with coffee and condensation on the windows. Afternoons exploring the nearby headland, where the maquis vegetation released its herby scent in the cooler, damper air. Evenings with the fire actually lit, feeling smug about our life choices. The house became a sort of seasonal cocoon, its spaces feeling right for the time of year in a way that a blazing hot August simply would not have allowed.

I thought about this quite a bit, walking back from another deserted beach with my hands deep in borrowed pockets. There is something about experiencing a place against its expected grain. Stintino in summer is a known quantity, photographed and hashtagged into familiarity. Stintino in late October is something else entirely, a working village returning to itself, the tourist infrastructure politely stepping back. You need a house with proper walls and working heating. You need to accept that swimming is a brief and mainly symbolic activity. You need, above all, to check the weather forecast before leaving the airport.

We stayed a week. By the end, I had acquired three new jumpers, a proper respect for Sardinian autumn, and a minor sunburn from a deceptively bright afternoon that had fooled us both. The tumble dryer, that unlikely hero, had rescued my single sensible purchase after an impulsive coastal walk ended in an unexpected wave. Some lessons, apparently, need repeating.

I would go back in a heartbeat. But next time, I am packing for the season that actually exists.