I have never been so grateful for a cup of tea in my entire life.

The journey to Poronin had been one of those trips where everything goes slightly wrong in a way that will, I am told, be hilarious in retrospect. We had set off from Krakow in high spirits, armed with a sat nav, a packet of crisps, and what I firmly believed was a waterproof coat. The Tatra Mountains were doing their best impression of an oil painting as we approached, all misty peaks and dark forests, and I was busy feeling terribly pleased with myself for booking a traditional wooden house in what looked like a postcard.

Then the rain started. Not English drizzle, mind you, but the sort of vertical, enthusiastic downpour that only mountain regions can properly manage. By the time we pulled up outside the property, my supposedly waterproof coat had surrendered entirely, and I discovered that I had packed three pairs of trousers but no umbrella whatsoever. My partner, who had actually checked the forecast, stood under a tiny porch looking irritatingly dry while I performed a sort of desperate dash from car to door that ended with me slipping on wet gravel and depositing most of my luggage in a puddle.

The owner, a wonderfully unflappable woman named Basia, opened the door to find me resembling a drowned rat clutching a soggy bag of toiletries. She did not laugh, which I thought showed remarkable restraint, and simply handed me a towel and put the kettle on.

That first hour in the house was pure autumnal bliss. The property itself is one of those traditional Polish wooden buildings, all dark beams and steeply pitched roofs, and stepping inside felt like entering a different world from the grey deluge outside. Basia had left the heating on low, and the place smelled of wood polish and something faintly herby, perhaps from dried mountain flowers in a vase on the windowsill. I stood in my socks, cradling that first cup of tea, and watched the rain turn the garden into a series of miniature streams while steam rose from my trousers on the radiator.

What struck me most was how completely the season had transformed the place. I imagine Poronin in summer is all bright meadows and hiking boots, families setting off at dawn with packed lunches. In late October, though, it was something quieter and more atmospheric. The trees surrounding the property had turned the sort of gold and copper that makes you understand why people paint landscapes. The mountains themselves kept appearing and disappearing behind curtains of cloud, so that every glimpse felt like a small gift. Even the rain, once I stopped being personally offended by it, had a sort of rhythmic persistence that made the house feel extraordinarily cosy.

We ventured out briefly that first evening, just to the village shop for milk and bread, and the cold had that particular mountain sharpness that catches in your throat. The pavements were already scattered with fallen leaves, slick and treacherous, and I walked with the careful deliberation of someone who had already fallen once that day. A local man passed us with two enormous dogs, nodded politely, and disappeared into the gloom. It felt very much like a place getting on with its own business, indifferent to tourists but not unwelcoming.

Back at the house, we lit the fire Basia had prepared in the traditional stove, and I finally understood why people romanticise autumn in the mountains. There is something about the combination of cold outside, warmth inside, and the steady drumming of rain on wooden roof that strips away any pretence of wanting to be anywhere else or doing anything more ambitious than reading a mediocre novel. My wet coat hung dripping in the hallway, a humbling reminder of my own overconfidence, and I found myself unexpectedly content with my own small failures.

The morning brought low cloud still clinging to the hills, but the rain had softened to a thin drizzle. I stood at the kitchen window with my second cup of tea, watching mist drift through the garden, and felt that particular stillness that comes with being properly awake before the day has decided what it wants to be. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell rang for mass. It was not the holiday I had imagined, all crisp walks and panoramic photographs, but it was turning out to be something better: an honest encounter with a place and season exactly as they were, without my interference.

I still need to buy a proper waterproof coat, obviously. But I suspect I will remember that first cup of tea, and the particular sound of rain on Polish wood, longer than I would remember any view from a summit.