We set off from Norwich with the windows down and the satnav confidently promising a swift hour and a half, which of course meant we arrived two hours later after taking the scenic route past every roundabout in Norfolk. The final straw came when I insisted on a “shortcut” that ended with us reversing down a single-track lane while a tractor driver shook his head in mild disappointment. By the time we pulled up outside Lighthouse View, my pride was as crumpled as the road atlas.

The cottage sat just far enough from the dunes to catch a proper sea breeze without the sand getting into everything. We tumbled out stiff-legged, collected the key from the neat little lockbox, and stepped inside to the smell of fresh linen and faint traces of someone’s last cup of tea. The living room opened straight onto a small patio where two stripy deckchairs waited like old friends. We didn’t even unpack properly—just dumped the bags, grabbed the nearest book each, and headed straight for the beach.

It was one of those rare Norfolk days when the sun actually stays out long enough to warm the pebbles. We spread an old blanket a few metres from the tideline and promptly did nothing at all. Gulls wheeled overhead, the odd dog trotted past with its owner trailing behind, and the only decision we had to make was whether to turn the page or simply close our eyes for a bit. Every so often I’d glance up at the cottage roofline and feel oddly grateful that our only obligation was to be back before the sun dipped too low.

Later we wandered the short stretch of shoreline that curves toward the pier, collecting the odd shell out of habit rather than any real plan. The sea was calm enough for paddling, so we rolled up our trousers like a pair of pensioners on a day trip and let the cold water nip at our ankles. Back at the cottage we brewed tea in mismatched mugs and carried it outside again, this time settling on the patio with the last of the biscuits we’d bought on the way. No telly, no rush, just the low murmur of waves and the occasional creak of the deckchairs adjusting to our slouching.

I’d come expecting to tick off coastal walks and perhaps a museum or two, but the longer we sat there the more pointless that list seemed. There’s a quiet sort of permission that comes with a place like this—permission to read the same paragraph three times because a butterfly landed on your knee, or to spend an entire afternoon watching the tide inch its way up the sand without feeling you’ve wasted a moment. By the time the light turned that soft Norfolk gold, we were already planning tomorrow on exactly the same terms: do very little, only slower.