We’d barely made it past Beccles when the satnav decided we needed a “quick detour” through a field. One wrong turn later and we were nose-to-nose with a very unimpressed sheep, while the cottage key rattled in the glove box like it was laughing at us. By the time we finally rolled into Kessingland the light was already softening over the fields, and the little whitewashed cottage looked exactly like the sort of place you promise yourself you’ll return to every summer.

The moment the door swung open, the smell of sea air and faintly toasted bread from someone’s earlier breakfast drifted out to meet us. One bedroom meant we’d all be tripping over each other’s flip-flops, yet somehow that felt perfect; the kids claimed the window seat as their “lookout” while I made a start on the kettle. From the front step you could already hear the waves, a low, steady hush that promised nothing more demanding than sand between your toes.

We wandered the short lane down to the beach before unpacking, shoes kicked off at the first patch of marram grass. The tide was out, leaving long glassy stretches where the children raced after tiny crabs and I found myself stopping to watch them, suddenly aware how rarely we all slow down together. Back at the cottage the little patio caught the last of the sun, so we dragged out plastic chairs and ate fish-and-chips straight from the paper, the tang of vinegar mixing with salt on the breeze.

Later, when the light faded, we left the door propped open and listened to the hush of waves instead of the telly. It struck me, watching the children yawn on the sofa, how little we actually needed; just somewhere safe to land after a daft detour and a stretch of sand within strolling distance. Tomorrow we might hunt for fossils or simply do nothing at all, but tonight the cottage felt like the cosiest kind of reset button, and I was quietly grateful we’d let it press itself.