I have never been so grateful for a sat nav in my entire life. There we were, winding through the limestone hills of Slovenia's Coast and Karst region in late October, convinced we were about fifteen minutes from our holiday let. Forty minutes later, we were staring at a goat who looked distinctly unimpressed with our life choices. Turns out I had punched in the wrong village name. Not wrong by much, mind you, just enough to send us on a scenic detour through every back lane the Karst plateau had to offer. My partner sat in the passenger seat with that particular expression of British restraint, the one that says "I shall mention this again precisely never, but also forever."

The light was doing that magical autumn thing when we finally crunched up the proper gravel drive. You know the kind, low and golden, turning the red-tiled roof of the Coast Carst into something from a postcard. The air smelled of woodsmoke and damp earth, that rich, mushroomy scent you only get in October when the first proper rains have soaked into the limestone. I stepped out of the car and immediately felt the season wrap around me like a damp wool blanket. Not unpleasant, just present. Assertive, even.

The house itself sat snug among stripped vines and fruit trees heavy with the last unpicked apples. Our host had left the heating on low, and opening the front door felt like being welcomed into a burrow. The tiled floors were cool underfoot but not punishing, that perfect transitional temperature that makes you reach for socks rather than slippers. Every window framed a view softened by autumn, the Adriatic visible in silver-grey glimpses between hills that had turned the colour of rust and old mustard.

I had packed for summer. This is important to admit. Somewhere in my planning brain, "Slovenian coast" had translated to "pack three t-shirts and optimism." The first evening, I borrowed my partner's fleece and sat on the terrace watching the light drain from the sky at what felt like an indecent hour. The season had already stripped the day bare; by half past five, we were lighting candles and contemplating soup for dinner rather than the grilled fish I had imagined. The local shops were selling pumpkins and late-season persimmons, the summer tourist stocks long cleared out. I found this oddly comforting. There is something about being somewhere slightly off-season, when the place is not performing for visitors but simply existing.

The morning brought mist, thick as cotton wool, rolling in from the sea and pooling in the hollows of the Karst. I took my coffee outside anyway, wrapped in a blanket I found in a cupboard, and watched it burn off to reveal a landscape scrubbed clean. The limestone shone white, almost luminous. The vines looked dramatic in their bareness, all structure and intention. I realised I was glad it was not summer. In July, I would have been swimming, yes, but I would have missed this particular theatre, the way the season makes you work slightly harder for your pleasures, makes you notice the warmth of sun on stone when it finally arrives around midday.

By our third day, I had stopped checking the weather forecast and started reading the mist instead. We walked to the nearby village for bread, timing our return to catch the afternoon window of brightness. The Coast Carst, I learned, is a house for seasonal adaptation. You do not fight the October weather here; you let it dictate a slower rhythm, one involving more red wine, more stews, more moments of staring at nothing through rain-streaked windows. I caught myself doing this one afternoon, completely still, watching a single persistent grape cling to a vine while the rain came down. I cannot remember the last time I simply watched something without reaching for my phone.

The season had stripped me down too, I suppose. Left me with fewer distractions and no excuse not to just be where I was, slightly chilly, occasionally lost, entirely content.