I have never been so grateful for a lukewarm shower in my entire life. But I am getting ahead of myself.

The drive up from Barcelona had been one of those classic British-holiday-in-Spain affairs. My partner had insisted we take the scenic route through the Penedes wine region, which sounded lovely in theory. In practice, it meant three hours of winding roads, my knee pressed against a hire car door that appeared to be held together by optimism, and a growing suspicion that our sat nav had developed a personal vendetta. By the time we reached Sant Jordi d'Alfama, I had eaten an entire bag of chorizo crisps out of sheer nervous energy and was sporting what can only be described as a windscreen-induced hairdo.

The property sits tucked into the hills above the Ebro Delta, and arriving in late October meant the light was doing that golden, slanting thing that makes everything look like a film set. The rice paddies below had turned from summer green to something more amber and tired, and the air carried a proper chill once the sun started dipping. I had packed for Mediterranean glamour and was rapidly realising I would be spending the week in layers.

Here is where the mishap comes in. I had been so smug about booking a place with a pool. "Still warm enough in October," I had declared, waving away my mother's warnings. "Catalonia's basically tropical." Reader, it is not. The pool was unheated, and after a long drive, I decided to prove a point. I did a running jump. I hit the water. My body immediately went into some primal survival mode that I did not know I possessed. I emerged making a noise like a deflating bouncy castle, teeth chattering so violently I nearly bit my own tongue. My partner, sat on the terrace with a glass of local vermouth, did not even lower his sunglasses.

But here is the thing about October in this part of Catalonia. The summer crowds have vanished. The beaches of the Delta, normally packed with Barcelona escapees, were practically ours alone. We walked for miles along empty sands, collecting the odd bit of driftwood, watching the flamingos in the lagoons doing whatever it is flamingos do when they think nobody is watching. The light was softer, more forgiving. Everything felt slowed down, deliberate, like the region itself was catching its breath after the August madness.

The house, to its credit, was built for this season. Thick stone walls that kept the afternoon warmth deep into the evening. A fireplace we used every single night, which felt almost embarrassingly cosy given we were technically still in Spain. I found myself genuinely excited about local market days, about coming back with armfuls of butternut squash and the last of the late tomatoes, about cooking something slow while wearing two jumpers.

There was a particular afternoon, maybe our fourth day, when the mist rolled in from the sea and turned the whole valley grey and soft. We had planned a hike. Instead we sat on the covered terrace with blankets and a bottle of Priorat, watching the weather happen to other people. I felt a strange contentment that I do not think I would have found in July, when the pressure to be doing, swimming, achieving something with the daylight would have been overwhelming.

That lukewarm shower, by the way, became my evening ritual. Not hot enough to be truly comfortable, but after a day of autumn air and walking, it felt like a kindness. I stopped complaining about it by day three. Some things you just accept, like the shorter days, like needing a proper jacket after six, like the fact that you are never going to win an argument with unheated water.

We left as November was threatening to arrive, the mornings properly cold now, the pool covered and still. I did not feel cheated out of summer. If anything, I felt like I had seen the place more honestly, without the noise and the heat and the performance of it all. I would go back in October every time. Though next time, I am checking the pool temperature before I jump.