We set off from Norwich on a bright Thursday morning, the boot stuffed with far too many jumpers for what the forecast promised, and promptly took the wrong turning at the roundabout. Ten minutes later we were back where we started, laughing at the sat-nav’s patient repetition of “recalculating.” By the time we finally pulled up outside Fallowfield, the cottage looked exactly as I’d hoped: a low, whitewashed place tucked behind a low garden wall, with a striped hammock already swaying in the breeze and a sandy path leading straight across the dunes to the sea.

The key was under the flowerpot, just as the host had promised, and the first thing we noticed was the quiet. No traffic, no neighbours calling across fences, only the soft hush of waves and the occasional gull giving us the once-over. Inside, the sitting room opened straight onto a little deck scattered with mismatched chairs, and the fridge had been stocked with milk and a packet of those posh biscuits you only buy on holiday. We kicked off our shoes, left the unpacking for later, and carried our books outside.

That first afternoon set the tone for the whole stay. We wandered down the sandy track to the beach, shoes in hand, and found miles of flat, empty sand stretching in both direction. The tide was out, so we paddled in the shallows, then flopped onto a tartan rug with paperbacks that stayed mostly closed. Every so often one of us would sit up, point at a passing sailboat, and declare we really ought to do something energetic, before immediately lying back down again.

Back at the cottage the days blurred pleasantly together. Mornings began with coffee on the deck, watching the light change over the water, followed by long stretches of doing almost nothing. I read an entire novel in two sittings, something I haven’t managed since university, and felt oddly proud of the achievement. In the afternoons we ambled along the shoreline collecting bits of driftwood for no reason at all, then returned to the hammock with ice creams from the little shop five minutes up the lane. Evenings were simple: pasta cooked on the little stove, a glass of wine, and the sound of the sea through the open window while we argued gently about whose turn it was to fetch more cushions.

I hadn’t realised how tightly I’d been wound until the second morning, when I caught myself checking my phone out of habit and then deliberately left it on the kitchen table. The mishap on the journey already felt like a lifetime ago; in its place was a slower rhythm that made ordinary things—sun on your face, sand between your toes, the luxury of an uninterrupted afternoon—feel like proper events. By the time we packed the car again, the boot seemed lighter somehow, even though we’d brought most of the jumpers home unused.