We’d barely turned off the coast road when the satnav decided we were already at Eastgate Cottage. “You have arrived,” it announced smugly, while we were still trundling past a field of sugar beet. Five minutes and one accidental detour down a single-track lane later, we finally pulled up outside the little flint cottage in Salthouse, Norfolk. The key safe was exactly where the host had promised, though wrestling it open with sandy fingers felt like the first proper test of the holiday.

Inside, everything smelled faintly of woodsmoke and fresh linen. The kitchen table was already laid with mismatched mugs, and someone had left a note suggesting a walk to the beach before the tide turned. We didn’t need much persuading. Five minutes later we were crunching across the shingle, the children racing ahead with buckets while we followed at a more dignified pace, still slightly giddy from the drive.

Back at the cottage the sitting room felt instantly homely, with squashy sofas and a log burner ready for later. We unpacked the car in leisurely instalments, pausing every so often to watch the light change over the marshes. Supper was thrown together from whatever we’d remembered to bring—sausages from the little shop in Cley, bread still warm from the bakery—and eaten at the scrubbed table with the door propped open to the evening air.

As darkness settled we lit the fire and played a chaotic round of Uno, the sort that always ends with someone accusing someone else of cheating. Later, once the children were asleep upstairs, I stood for a moment in the quiet kitchen, listening to the faint hush of waves beyond the garden hedge. It struck me how rarely we manage to slow down like this—just us, salt on our skin, and nothing more pressing than whether the kettle’s boiled yet.

Tomorrow we’d decide whether to potter along the coast path or simply stay put with books and blankets. For now, the cottage had already done its job: we felt properly arrived, properly unhurried, and perfectly content to let the rest of the week unfold at its own gentle pace.