We’d barely made it out of Great Yarmouth before the satnav decided to send us down a lane so narrow the wing mirrors were practically shaking hands with the hedgerows. By the time we pulled up outside 6 Barleycroft, I’d convinced myself we were lost, but the little white gate and the sandy doormat said otherwise. The cottage sat quietly behind a low wall, just a short stroll from the dunes, and the moment we stepped inside the smell of warm wood and sea air told us the journey was already worth it.

The mishap had left us both a bit frazzled, so we didn’t unpack straight away. Instead we kicked off our shoes, made a pot of tea, and carried the mugs out to the little patio where two striped deckchairs waited in a patch of sunshine. From there the sea was only a five-minute amble across the marram grass, and the temptation proved too strong. We wandered down with nothing but a blanket and a paperback each, settling on the dry sand as if the afternoon had been arranged especially for us.

Back at the cottage the pace slowed even further. The kitchen opened straight onto that sunny patio, so breakfast became a leisurely affair of toast eaten outside while gulls wheeled overhead. Between meals we drifted between the sofa by the window and the garden bench, swapping pages of our books and occasionally dozing off mid-chapter. The only real decision each day was whether to head to the beach before or after elevenses, and even that felt like too much planning.

One morning I found myself standing at the sink, watching the light move across the dunes, and realised I hadn’t checked my phone in hours. Usually that would have felt like an oversight; here it simply felt unnecessary. The gentle rhythm of tide and sunlight had taken over, and the cottage seemed designed for exactly that sort of surrender. Even the small mishap on the way in had faded into a story we told each other while buttering crumpets, proof that the week was already working its quiet magic.

By the third afternoon we’d perfected the art of doing very little. A walk along the shoreline at low tide, toes in the shallows, then back to the cottage for sandwiches eaten with sandy fingers on the patio. Later, with the windows open, we listened to the distant hush of waves while finishing the last of the teabags. There was no itinerary, no rush, just the easy contentment of a beach cottage that asked nothing more of us than to sit still and let the sunshine do the rest.