The Sat Nav had other ideas about how to reach Majdy, and by the time we realised it was sending us down what I can only describe as a glorified tractor path, we were already committed. My partner was driving, I was navigating, and between us we had the combined orienteering skills of a confused pigeon. We emerged twenty minutes later through a gap in the birch trees to find ourselves at the wrong lake entirely, where a very patient Polish fisherman pointed us back toward the proper road with gestures that suggested this happened to foreigners with depressing regularity.

We arrived at the property in late September, when Masuria was shrugging off summer like someone leaving a party they had enjoyed rather too much. The lake district was all bronze and amber, the kind of colours that make you feel slightly melancholy without knowing why. The house itself sat among pines that were beginning to thin their needles onto the roof, and the first thing that struck me was how quiet everything had become. No motorboats cutting across the water, no children shrieking from the jetty. Just the wind moving through trees that were halfway to bare, and the occasional plop of something deciding the lake looked inviting despite the chill.

The owner had left the heating on low, and stepping inside from that particular autumn damp felt like being folded into a warm blanket. The wood-burning stove dominated the living space, and I immediately appointed myself Fire Marshal despite having no qualifications beyond enthusiasm. My first attempt produced more smoke than flame, and I spent a pleasant half hour with every window open, defeating the entire purpose while my partner read the instructions I had confidently ignored.

September in Masuria means accepting limitations with good grace. The kayaks were still available but the idea of tipping into water that cold held no appeal. Instead we walked the shoreline path, crunching through leaves that had achieved the perfect state of crispness, the ones that make you deliberately seek them out like a child. The mushrooms were everywhere, little communities of them pushing through the pine needles, and I photographed dozens with the authority of someone who cannot identify a single edible variety.

Evenings came early, which was the season's gift to us really. By half past six the light had withdrawn to a thin line across the lake, and we were lighting candles and cooking simple things from the village shop three miles back. The dark felt absolute, not the compromised darkness of towns but something with actual weight to it. We talked more than we had in months, simply because the alternative was sitting in silence or attempting the limited Polish television options.

What I had not expected was how the autumn stripped everything back to essentials. No pressure to swim or sail or barbecue. Just the house, the cooling air, the gradual turning of the year. I found myself watching a single birch tree for longer than I would admit, tracking how many leaves it lost in an hour, as if this were important information.

On our final morning I woke to frost on the deck and the realisation that we had caught Masuria at its most honest, without summer's performance or winter's drama. The fisherman at the wrong lake had done us a favour after all. We left the heating on for the next guests, whoever they might be, and drove away through tunnels of trees that were giving up their colour with surprising dignity.