I should have known the Polish autumn had it in for me the moment I packed my summer jacket. There I was, sat in the car somewhere past Szczecin, watching the wind whip the reeds into a frenzy along the roadside, still stubbornly convinced I'd be fine in a light cotton number. My other half, naturally, had brought a proper coat and spent most of the journey wearing an expression that said "I told you so" without actually wasting the breath.

The drive through Pomerania that October morning had been properly atmospheric though. Low grey skies, the odd burst of copper-coloured trees, and that particular smell of damp earth and woodsmoke that makes you think of bonfires and borrowed wellies. We wound through villages where every other house seemed to be selling mushrooms from cardboard boxes, and I began to suspect my packing optimism might have been misplaced.

Nowe Warpno itself appeared suddenly, huddled where the lake meets the river, and the first thing that struck me was how the season had emptied the place of summer noise. No boats puttering about, no ice cream queues, just the wind rattling the mooring ropes against empty jetties and a few hardy fishermen in oilskins doing something purposeful with nets. It felt like we'd arrived at someone's house the morning after a tremendous party, when the confetti's still there but the guests have vanished.

The property sat back from the water, a solid wooden affair that looked like it had been built specifically to withstand whatever the Baltic weather could hurl at it. Which, on arrival, appeared to be quite a lot. The key was in the lockbox as promised, though extracting it required fingers that were rapidly losing feeling. I may have said something unprintable. My other half, still in that coat, found this amusing.

Stepping inside was genuinely lovely though, and here's where the season really made itself felt. The place had clearly been set up for autumn stays, not the stripped-back summer rental I'd half-expected. Thick blankets folded on the sofa, proper curtains rather than flimsy things, and when I finally worked the heating it kicked in with a satisfying whoosh that seemed to say "you're not freezing on my watch." The windows were slightly steamed from the temperature difference, which gave everything that satisfyingly cosy feeling you can't manufacture, only earn through genuine outside unpleasantness.

I stood there in my ridiculous jacket, watching rain begin to streak the glass, and felt that particular autumn melancholy settle over me. Not the depressing sort, mind. The kind that makes you want soup and a book and absolutely no plans. The lake, visible through the trees, had gone that steely colour it only gets in late season, and a handful of migratory birds were doing something organised on the far shore, preparing for journeys I suddenly felt quite envious of.

My other half produced a flask of tea from somewhere, because of course they had, and we stood there in the warming room watching the season do its thing outside. I'd got the clothing wrong, the timing perhaps, but somehow the place was right. Autumn in Pomerania doesn't ask you to perform summer activities with a brave face. It offers you a chair, a view, and permission to simply be indoors while nature gets on with it.

I borrowed a proper coat for the walk to the village shop later. Some lessons, it seems, are learned slowly.