We set off from Gothenburg on a bright October afternoon, the ferry to Tjorn feeling almost too efficient until the satnav decided our little hire car needed a scenic detour through what looked like someone's back garden. By the time we pulled up outside the cottage the light was already softening, and the air carried that unmistakable autumn chill that makes you wish you'd packed an extra jumper.

The first thing that struck me was how the season had painted everything in muted tones. The garden, which I imagine looks lush in July, had given itself over to fallen leaves and the faint scent of woodsmoke drifting from a neighbour's chimney. Inside, the woodburner was already laid ready, and I felt oddly grateful for that small thoughtful touch as we dropped our bags and flicked on the lamps. The living room windows framed a slice of the inlet where a few boats still bobbed, their hulls reflecting the pale sky like watercolours left out in the rain.

We wandered down to the little jetty after unpacking, hands shoved deep in pockets because the breeze had turned properly nippy. A heron stood motionless at the water's edge, and I found myself wondering whether it was as surprised by the sudden drop in temperature as we were. Back at the cottage the kitchen proved perfectly snug for rustling up a simple supper, and we ate at the table with the curtains open so we could watch the last of the daylight fade. There is something quietly satisfying about seeing a place settle into its off-season rhythm.

Later, wrapped in blankets on the sofa, I caught myself thinking how different this trip felt from our usual summer escapes. Without the crowds and the long evenings, everything moved slower and felt more deliberate. The mishap with the satnav, which had seemed so annoying at the time, had actually delivered us here just as the light turned golden, and that felt like a small gift from the season itself.