We’d barely made it out of Norwich when the satnav decided to send us down a single-track lane that narrowed with every bend, and before we knew it the boot was wedged against a hedge while a tractor idled patiently behind us. By the time we’d reversed into a gateway and waved the farmer past, we were both laughing so hard the postcode had completely slipped our minds. That small comedy of errors set the tone for the whole weekend: every time we tried to be organised, Norfolk gently nudged us off course instead.

The cottage itself appeared just as we were about to give up and phone the owner. Tucked behind a low flint wall on a quiet lane that runs parallel to the seafront, it looked exactly like the photographs but somehow smaller and cosier in real life. Five bedrooms meant we could spread out without tripping over each other, yet the sitting room still felt intimate once the wood-burner was crackling. We dumped the bags, made tea in mismatched mugs, and stepped straight out again because the light over the cliffs was too good to waste.

What we meant to do was follow the coastal path into Mundesley village for fish and chips. What we actually did was miss the turning at the allotments and end up on a narrow track that wound between tall hedges heavy with blackberries. Half a mile later the hedges gave way to a small, empty car park and a wooden sign half-hidden by brambles: “Beach access – locals only (apparently).” We took it as an invitation. The path dropped steeply through gorse and marram grass onto a stretch of sand so empty we could hear individual waves rather than the usual seaside hum. A couple of dog-walkers nodded hello and carried on, leaving us to poke about in rock pools that looked untouched all summer.

Further along, still following our noses rather than any map, we stumbled across a tiny wooden shelter built into the cliff face. Inside, someone had left a visitors’ book and a stack of battered paperbacks. We added our names, swapped a damp copy of Swallows and Amazons for an even damper Agatha Christie, and sat on the bench watching the tide turn. It felt like the sort of place you only find when you’re already lost.

By the time we wandered back, the cottage lights were glowing and the oven had been pre-heated by someone sensible—probably me, hours earlier, in a fit of organisation I’d now abandoned. We cooked with whatever we’d grabbed at the village shop on the way in, ate it at the long kitchen table with the doors wide open to the dusk, and agreed that getting properly disorientated had been the best decision of the weekend. Norfolk, it turns out, prefers you to arrive by accident.