We’d barely left the A12 when the satnav decided we were better off taking “the scenic route,” which in reality meant a single-track lane lined with brambles and the occasional surprised pheasant. By the time we trundled into Walberswick the light was fading and we were both starving, so naturally we overshot the turning for the cottage and ended up in what looked like someone’s driveway. A handwritten sign pointing vaguely seaward read “Beach this way – mind the nettles,” and that was that; we abandoned the car and followed it on foot, dragging our weekend bags behind us like reluctant toddlers.

The path wound between high gorse and whispering reeds until, quite suddenly, the cottage appeared – a low, weather-boarded thing tucked behind a flint wall, its chimney already sending up a thin plume of smoke. We hadn’t expected it to feel quite so hidden; the listing had promised proximity to the beach, yet here we were, screened by hawthorn and the sort of silence that makes you lower your voice without thinking. A wicker basket sat on the doorstep with a note from the owner: “Fresh eggs from next door, help yourselves.” We took that as permission to stop apologising to the satnav and simply be there.

Inside, the rooms still held the day’s warmth. Mismatched armchairs faced a wood burner already laid, and a wonky shelf displayed shells, driftwood and a single, very old postcard of the ferry across the Blyth. We dropped our bags, pulled on jumpers, and stepped straight out again because the tide was clearly on the turn and neither of us could resist the pull of an empty shore at dusk.

Instead of heading back to the lane we followed a narrow track that cut through the dunes, half expecting it to peter out. It didn’t; after ten minutes of soft sand and marram grass we found ourselves at the edge of a shallow creek where a handful of small boats lay tipped on their sides like sleepy dogs. A heron lifted off as we approached, and for a ridiculous moment we both stood completely still, watching it flap away over the water. We’d meant to unpack, maybe locate the nearest pub, yet here we were, miles from either plan and perfectly content.

Later, back at the cottage, we lit the fire and ate the eggs scrambled with the last of some bread we’d bought en route. The mishap on the lane already felt like the best bit of the weekend – the small, unplanned detour that had shown us the cottage wasn’t just near the beach, it was part of the same quiet landscape. We hadn’t found the village green or the ice-cream hut yet, but we had found a heron, a hidden creek and the peculiar calm that comes from getting properly lost on purpose.