We’d barely left the A149 when the satnav decided we were taking the scenic route, which in Norfolk usually means a single-track lane with passing places the width of a wheelbarrow. Ten minutes later we were inching past a field of sugar beet, convinced we’d taken a wrong turn, until the cottage suddenly appeared at the end of a gravel drive, half-hidden behind a hedge that looked like it had been trimmed with nail scissors.

The key was supposed to be under the flowerpot by the back door, but the flowerpot had clearly been moved by either the wind or a very determined squirrel. After a brief, slightly undignified search involving knees cracking and mild swearing, we found it tucked behind the boot scraper. The door opened with that satisfying old-latch clunk, and straight away the smell of woodsmoke and slightly damp wellies hit us. It felt like the cottage had been waiting.

Inside, everything was exactly the right side of cosy. A low-beamed sitting room with squashy sofas faced a wood burner already laid with kindling, and the kitchen table had enough space for three mugs and a jigsaw without anyone having to move the toaster. Upstairs, the bedrooms were simple and neat, the kind where you can fling open a window and hear nothing but the occasional tractor and a blackbird giving it his all.

We’d only meant to drop the bags and head straight out, but the view from the kitchen window stopped us. A sliver of sea was just visible between two fields, the sort of distant grey-blue that makes you reach for a jumper even though it’s July. We decided the beach could wait ten minutes.

Ten minutes turned into an hour. We made tea, argued gently about whose turn it was to unpack the car, and ended up sitting on the back step watching a rabbit appear and disappear along the hedge. By the time we finally set off on foot, the light had that soft late-afternoon quality that makes everything look gentler. The lane wound between high banks of cow parsley, and every so often we caught another glimpse of the sea, closer now.

The beach itself was almost empty when we reached it, just a few dog walkers and a dad teaching his small daughter how to skim stones. We walked along the tideline, shoes in hand, collecting bits of driftwood that would never actually get turned into anything useful. The sand was firmer than expected, and the breeze carried that clean, salty smell you only seem to notice properly on the first day.

Back at the cottage, we cooked a lazy supper of sausages and whatever veg looked least likely to go off. The wood burner took three attempts to light, but once it caught it filled the room with a warmth that made us all a bit dopey. We played cards at the kitchen table until someone (me) kept forgetting the rules and had to be gently reminded that “pairs” doesn’t mean “whatever two cards I fancy.”

Lying in bed later, listening to the occasional creak of old timbers and the soft hush of wind through the hedge, I found myself thinking how little we’d actually done. No grand plans, no packed itinerary, just a slightly chaotic arrival, a cup of tea that went cold, and the quiet realisation that sometimes the best part of a holiday is the bit where you haven’t quite started yet.