We’d barely made it off the A12 when the sat-nav decided Kessingland was “somewhere over there” and took us down a lane so narrow the wing mirrors started apologising to the hedgerows. By the time we found the little turning for the cottage, I was convinced we’d end up reversing into someone’s garden. Instead we reversed into the cottage’s own gravel drive—only to discover the gate was already open and a man in a flat cap was standing there with two mugs of tea, as if he’d been expecting us since Tuesday.

“Thought you might need these after that turn,” he said, handing one over without asking our names. That was Reg, who lives two doors down and apparently keeps an eye on every arrival. He’d already decided we looked like the sort who’d forget milk, so a pint was waiting on the doorstep too. Inside, the cottage felt exactly like the photos—low beams, a wood burner that had clearly seen some winters, and that faint seaside-damp smell that no amount of airing ever quite shifts. We dumped the bags and wandered straight back out again, drawn by the sound of voices carrying from the lane.

Further along, a woman was wrestling a stubborn wheelbarrow full of crab pots. She introduced herself as Maureen and immediately asked if we’d “come for the quiet or the gossip.” Before we could answer, she launched into a story about the time the lifeboat crew mistook a lost spaniel for a distress flare. Reg reappeared with a third mug, this time for Maureen, and the three of us stood there chatting like we’d known each other for years instead of minutes. They pointed out which garden wall to lean on for the best sunset view and warned us that the seagulls here had “university degrees in chip theft.”

By the time we finally made it down to the beach—just a five-minute stroll—the light was already softening. We sat on the low wall with fish and chips from the kiosk and watched a small dog attempt to outrun the waves. Every so often another local would pass and give a nod or a quick “settling in all right?” as if checking we hadn’t got lost again. It struck me, watching them all, how quickly a place stops feeling like somewhere you’re visiting and starts feeling like somewhere you’ve been gently adopted. We hadn’t even unpacked properly yet, but Kessingland already knew our names—or at least the version of them that Reg had decided suited us.