We’d barely been on the road an hour when the satnav decided Bradwell was somewhere near the middle of the North Sea, so we pulled over in a lay-by and argued over which turning looked “Norfolk enough.” By the time we found the right lane the cottage key safe had already pinged its code to my phone three times, and I was convinced we’d end up sleeping in the car. When we finally rolled up the gravel drive, the little two-bed place looked exactly like the photos only smaller, which was oddly comforting after all that drama.

The owner had left a note on the table saying the beach path started “just behind the garden hedge,” so after unpacking the cool-bag we set off with wellies and a thermos, fully expecting five minutes of dunes and then fish and chips. Instead the path forked three ways within thirty seconds and we chose the one that looked least like a bog. Ten minutes later we were standing in front of a tiny wooden bird hide tucked between reeds, completely hidden from the road and apparently forgotten by everyone except a very surprised heron. We stayed until the light went soft, watching curlews pick their way along the edge of a hidden creek that never appeared on any map we’d seen.

Back at the cottage the kettle had just boiled when we noticed another narrow track running alongside the garden fence. Curiosity and leftover biscuits sent us down it, and within five minutes we were ankle-deep in marram grass beside a shingle spit that curved out into the Wash like a secret comma. No one else was there; just the sound of the tide turning and a single seal watching us with mild disapproval. We sat on a bit of driftwood until our socks were properly soaked, then wandered back by torchlight, laughing at how we’d managed to get briefly lost twice in the space of an afternoon without ever leaving the village.

That evening, eating supermarket pasties at the kitchen table with the curtains open to the dark garden, I realised the best bits of the trip so far had nothing to do with plans and everything to do with wrong turns. The cottage itself felt like a gentle accomplice, its windows perfectly placed for watching the sky change while we decided, again, whether another explore could wait until morning.