We'd been on the road since dawn, the A47 stretching out like it had a personal grudge against us, when the satnav suddenly decided we were in a field just outside Holt. My husband swore under his breath while I tried not to laugh, but the truth was we were both exhausted and a bit lost. The turning for Salthouse finally appeared after what felt like an extra twenty minutes of squinting at road signs, and there it was—Eastgate Cottage, tucked just back from the lane with that soft red brick and the little wooden gate that creaked like it had seen a few decades of holidaymakers come and go.

The key was in the lockbox exactly as promised, though it took me three goes to get the numbers right because my fingers were stiff from gripping the steering wheel. Inside, the cottage smelled faintly of woodsmoke and something sweet—maybe the last guests had left biscuits out. We dropped our bags in the little hallway and wandered straight through to the kitchen, where a big window looked out towards the marshes. The tide was out, leaving wide stretches of glistening sand, and I could just about hear the sea if I stood still and stopped talking for a moment.

We were both starving by then, so we wandered down to the little shop in the village for bread and milk. The woman behind the counter asked if we were “just up for the weekend,” and when I said we’d driven from the Midlands she gave us that knowing look that said she’d heard every version of that story. Back at the cottage, we made tea in mismatched mugs and sat on the bench outside, watching the light change over the fields. It was quieter than I’d expected, the kind of quiet that makes you notice your own thoughts creeping in.

I’d been looking forward to this break for months, telling myself it would be all long walks and pub lunches, but sitting there with the wind tugging at my hair I realised I’d also been hoping it would slow everything down a bit. The journey had been such a rush of service stations and wrong turns that arriving felt almost unreal—like we’d finally stepped off a moving walkway. My husband dozed off on the bench beside me, and I found myself just watching a curlew pick its way across the marsh, thinking how strange it was that the smallest things, like finding the right cottage key or remembering where we’d parked the car, could feel like tiny victories after a long drive.

Later, we took a short stroll along the path behind the cottage, the beach only a few minutes away. The air smelled of salt and something green, and the light was that soft Norfolk kind that makes everything look slightly unreal. We didn’t do much, just wandered until our legs remembered how to move again. Back inside, the cottage already felt familiar—the creak of the floorboards, the way the kettle whistled just a little too loud. It wasn’t flashy or perfect, but it felt like somewhere you could settle for a few days without having to try too hard.

As the evening drew in and we pulled the curtains against the chill, I caught myself smiling at how quickly the mishaps of the journey had faded. Sometimes all it takes is arriving somewhere quiet, with tea in hand and the sea not far off, to remember why you bothered leaving in the first place.