We’d barely made it out of the car park at the station when the heavens opened, turning our weekend bags into soggy parcels and sending us scurrying for the little bus that runs along the coast road. By the time we reached Filigree Manor the rain had eased to a soft drizzle, but my shoes were squelching and the children were in fits because I’d managed to sit on a half-eaten packet of Percy Pigs that had somehow migrated to the back seat.

Still laughing, we pushed open the low wooden gate and got our first proper look at the place. It sits just a short walk from the dunes, its flint walls softened by climbing roses and a rather wonky chimney that leans ever so slightly, as if it’s been enjoying the sea air for decades. The front garden was dotted with deckchairs already set out, and the faint tang of salt mixed with the smell of cut grass made us all take a deep, greedy breath.

Inside, the cottage felt instantly welcoming. A well-worn sofa faced a wood-burner that looked ready for an evening of board games, and the kitchen table was big enough for the four of us plus whatever driftwood treasures the kids would inevitably bring back. We dumped our damp bags, kicked off sandy shoes, and wandered straight through the French doors to the little patio. From there you can see the path that winds between marram grass straight down to the beach, barely five minutes away if you don’t dawdle.

That first afternoon we didn’t do much more than potter. The tide was out, leaving wide stretches of damp sand perfect for collecting shells and the odd bit of sea glass. My partner and I took turns keeping an eye on the children while the other sat on a rug with a flask of tea, watching the sky shift from grey to the palest blue. Every so often a dog would trot past with its owner, both of them looking equally pleased to be out after the rain.

Back at the cottage we raided the welcome hamper—local crab pâté and some rather good biscuits—and ate it with our feet up while the children coloured at the table. It struck me, watching them bicker gently over a purple crayon, how rare it is to have nowhere particular to be. Usually holidays come with itineraries and checklists, but here the only plan seemed to be “see what the tide’s doing.”

Later, once the sun had dipped, we strolled back down to the water’s edge. The air had turned crisp, and the only sounds were the hush of small waves and the occasional cry of a gull heading inland. Standing there, shoes in hand, I felt the silly rush of the journey and the damp start of the day melt away. Sometimes the best bits of a break are simply arriving, shoes ruined and all, and realising you’ve already found what you came for.