We’d been on the road since dawn, the A148 stretching out like it had a personal grudge against us, and by the time we finally turned into the little lane behind Cromer beach I was convinced the satnav was having a laugh. Then came the mishap: I’d sworn blind the cottage key was in the glovebox, only to fish out a stray boiled sweet and a handful of old receipts instead. After a frantic re-check of every pocket and bag, we found it tucked inside the book I’d brought for the beach. By then the rain had started, that fine Norfolk drizzle that somehow gets everywhere, and we were both laughing at how ridiculous the whole thing felt after four hours of traffic.

The cottage itself sat just far enough from the seafront to feel tucked away, yet the sound of waves carried clearly once we stepped out of the car. The front door opened straight into a low-ceilinged living room with a couple of well-loved sofas and a wood burner already laid ready for later. I liked that it didn’t try too hard; everything felt practical and a bit lived-in, the sort of place where sandy feet wouldn’t raise an eyebrow. A narrow galley kitchen led off to one side, complete with a kettle that looked older than me but boiled in record time—essential after the journey.

Upstairs, the two bedrooms were simple but spotless, each with crisp linen and windows that caught the grey afternoon light. One looked out over rooftops towards the pier, the other over a small, tidy back garden where a couple of deckchairs waited under a plastic cover. I caught myself lingering by the landing window, watching a dog walker on the promenade below, and realised how quickly the tension of the drive had slipped away. It wasn’t grand or flashy, but that was exactly the point.

We left our bags half-unpacked and wandered the short distance to the beach, shoes already damp from the wet grass verges. The tide was out, leaving wide stretches of damp sand perfect for an aimless stroll. Cromer’s famous crabs were being advertised on every chalkboard we passed, but for now the fresh air and the sight of the pier stretching into the mist felt like enough. Back at the cottage, I made tea in mismatched mugs and we sat by the unlit fire, coats still on, listening to the occasional car on the lane outside.

There’s something quietly reassuring about arriving somewhere and immediately feeling you can just stop. The key fiasco already felt like a story we’d tell later, the sort that grows funnier with each retelling. For the first time in months I wasn’t mentally running through tomorrow’s to-do list; I was simply glad the kettle worked and the rain had eased. Outside, the light was fading over the North Sea, and inside, the cottage already felt like it had room for us to slow down.