We’d barely been on the road an hour when I decided the satnav knew better than the road signs and took us down a lane that narrowed to a single track with grass sprouting through the middle. The car scraped something metallic under the wheel arch, we both yelped, and by the time we reached the cottage in Kessingland the satnav was sulking and so were we. The cottage itself, tucked just behind the dunes, looked exactly as promised: pale weatherboard, a little gravel drive, and a kitchen window already catching the late sun. We dragged the bags inside, flicked on the kettle, and immediately started arguing about what counted as “a proper first meal.”

The fridge had been stocked by the owners with local sausages, a loaf from the village bakery, and a wedge of Suffolk Gold. I declared we’d cook, which turned into a mild disaster when the grill decided it preferred smoke to heat and set the smoke alarm off before we’d even buttered the bread. We ended up eating half-cooked bangers with our fingers on the little patio while the alarm chirped indignantly above us. It was hardly fine dining, but the sausages were so good that the comedy of it didn’t matter.

By the time we’d unpacked, the light was fading and the sea was making that soft, steady hush just beyond the garden fence. We wandered the five-minute path to the beach, shoes in hand, and then turned inland again when our stomachs reminded us that half a sausage each wasn’t going to last the evening. The nearest pub, The Sailors’ Rest, sits right on the edge of the village green. We claimed a corner table, ordered pints of Adnams and plates of fish and chips that arrived still hissing from the fryer. The chips were the proper thick-cut sort that go soggy at the edges in the best way, and the tartare sauce had more dill than seemed strictly necessary. We ate slowly, watching locals drift in and out, and felt the day’s small disasters start to shrink.

The next morning we drove the short distance to the weekly market in the next village over, where trestle tables groaned under loaves, jars of pickled beetroot, and punnets of early strawberries. We bought far too much—crusty rolls, a round of cheese, and a pot of local honey whose label had clearly been written by hand. Back at the cottage we attempted a picnic on the tiny lawn, only for a rogue gust to upend the paper plates. We rescued what we could, ate the rest inside with the doors open, and spent the afternoon pretending we were going to “do something cultural” while actually just reading and napping.

By evening the kitchen had become our favourite room. We tried again with the grill, this time armed with the market rolls and thick slices of ham. The toast caught slightly at one corner, but we called it caramelised and ate it anyway, standing at the counter with the radio on. Later we wandered back to the pub for a nightcap, sharing a slice of treacle tart that came with a jug of proper custard. Walking home under a sky that still held the last of the day’s light, I caught myself thinking how little the satnav mishap and the burnt toast actually mattered. The cottage had done what it was meant to: given us a kitchen to mess up, a beach to wander to, and a couple of pubs where nobody minded if you turned up with sand on your socks and an appetite sharpened by sea air.