We set off from King's Lynn on what felt like a proper summer morning, windows down and the satnav promising an easy half-hour hop to Ingoldisthorpe. The cottage looked lovely online, all whitewashed walls and a garden gate that opened straight onto the coastal path, so we were in high spirits. Then came the small but funny mishap: halfway along the narrow lane a tractor pulled out without warning, forcing me to swerve into a verge that turned out to be softer than it looked. The car tilted at a comical angle, one wheel spinning in mud, while the driver of the tractor gave us the sort of wave that said “happens all the time round here.” By the time we’d rocked ourselves free we were both laughing and slightly late, but the cottage appeared around the next bend like a reward.

The moment we stepped inside, the first thing that struck us was how the sea already seemed to be part of the living room. Wide windows framed a stripe of blue that changed shade every time a cloud drifted over, and the faint salt tang drifted in whenever we opened the back door. We dumped our bags, swapped trainers for walking shoes, and set straight off along the coastal path that runs behind the garden. Within minutes the cottages gave way to dunes and marram grass, and the only sounds were the rhythmic hush of waves and the occasional cry of a tern. The plan had been a gentle three-mile stroll to the next bay and back before lunch, but British weather had other ideas.

Half an hour in, the sky turned that familiar Norfolk pewter and a soft drizzle began, the sort that doesn’t look serious until you’re properly soaked. We sheltered under a stunted hawthorn for five minutes, weighing up whether to turn back or push on. In the end we decided the drizzle added to the fun; it gave the marram an extra shade of green and made the distant cliffs look almost Highland. By the time we reached the little wooden footbridge over the creek the rain had eased, leaving everything sparkling. We stood there watching a family of oystercatchers pick their way along the mud, feeling oddly grateful that the weather had forced us to slow down and notice the details.

Back at the cottage the garden felt twice as welcoming after the walk. We spread damp jackets over the fence to dry, made tea in mismatched mugs from the kitchen cupboard, and sat on the bench watching the tide creep in. The mishap with the tractor already felt like part of the story rather than a delay, and the changed plans had given us a stretch of coast we might otherwise have rushed past. As the light softened toward evening I found myself thinking how often we arrive somewhere with a rigid list of things to do, only for the weather or a muddy verge to nudge us toward whatever the place actually wants to show us.