We’d barely pulled into the little car park behind Sedum House when the satnav decided we were still on the A149 and cheerfully announced we’d “arrived at our destination” somewhere in a lay-by near Mundesley. I reversed into what I thought was a space, only to discover it was actually the side entrance to the village hall, and a man in a flat cap was already tapping on the window with a bemused grin.

“Wrong turning, love?” he asked, peering past me at the cottage. “You’re after the Sedum, aren’t you? Follow the hydrangeas.” He pointed with his walking stick to a riot of purple blooms half-obscuring the gate, and that was that—our introduction to Gimingham’s unofficial welcoming committee.

Inside, the cottage felt like someone had left the windows open all week so the sea air could settle into the sofas. We dropped our bags, made a cuppa, and wandered back outside just as the same chap reappeared, this time pushing a wheelbarrow full of kindling. “Name’s Arthur,” he said, as if we’d already been introduced. “You’ll want a fire tonight; wind’s got a nip on it.” Before I could answer, a woman in bright yellow wellies popped her head over the low wall. “Don’t listen to him, he’s been saying that since Easter. I’m Maureen—live two doors down. If you need extra milk or a corkscrew that actually works, just shout.”

We ended up chatting on the wall for twenty minutes, which turned into an impromptu tour of their respective gardens. Arthur insisted on showing us the exact spot where the old coast-watch hut used to stand (“long before your time, obviously”), while Maureen told us about the time the local lifeboat crew mistook a lost labrador for a stranded seal. Every sentence seemed to end with an invitation—“pop round if you fancy a slice of my lemon drizzle”—and I found myself nodding along, wondering when I’d last spoken to neighbours for longer than it takes to collect a parcel.

Later, when we finally got round to unpacking, I caught myself still smiling at the way Arthur had corrected my pronunciation of “Gimingham” three times without a hint of impatience. It struck me that the cottage itself might be lovely, but it was these small, unhurried exchanges that had already made the place feel less like a holiday let and more like somewhere we might actually remember.