We set off from King’s Lynn in a drizzle that couldn’t decide whether it was rain or mist, the satnav cheerfully promising we’d be at Malthouse Farm in twenty minutes. Twenty-five minutes later we were still circling the same roundabout because someone—me—had confidently typed “Malt House” instead of “Malthouse.” By the time we bumped down the track and spotted the old brick barns, the boot was half-full of wet shopping and our patience was running on fumes.

A chap in a flat cap was already leaning on the gate, as though he’d been waiting for the entertainment to arrive. “You the London lot?” he asked, nodding at the damp carrier bags. Before I could answer, a woman in wellies appeared from behind the barn with a collie at her heels. “Don’t mind him,” she said, “he’s only nosy because the last people left their dog’s ball behind and he’s been guarding it ever since.” We introduced ourselves, and within minutes the chap—Derek, it turned out—had taken charge of the key and was pointing out the quirks of the latch with the gravity of a man unveiling national secrets.

While we unloaded, the collie’s owner, Maureen, reappeared with a thermos of tea “for the shock of the journey.” She wanted to know whether we’d spotted the herons down by the creek yet. Derek, meanwhile, was busy explaining why the tide here was “never quite where the telly says it’ll be,” complete with hand gestures that nearly knocked over our suitcase. I tried to look knowledgeable, but the only tide I’d consulted was the one in my coffee cup that morning.

By the time the kettle in the cottage had boiled, half the village seemed to have an opinion on where we should walk first. A young lad on a bike stopped to ask if we needed milk, then stayed to debate whether the new bench on the green was an improvement or simply “another place for tourists to sit and complain about the wind.” Maureen’s collie had already claimed our doormat as his own, and Derek was still talking tides as though the subject might run out if he paused for breath.

I stood there with wet socks and a mug of tea that tasted faintly of thermos plastic, listening to strangers argue cheerfully about nothing in particular, and felt the odd little twist of realising that the mishap with the satnav had handed us something better than perfect directions: an accidental introduction to the place through its people. The cottage itself could wait; for now the farm track felt more like the front room.