We set off from home with the usual over-optimism about traffic, only to discover, three miles short of Amble, that I’d typed the postcode into the satnav upside-down and we were circling a farm track instead of the seafront. After a sheep gave us a very unimpressed stare, we finally pulled up outside the little terraced cottage, suitcases tumbling onto the pavement as the children cheered at the sight of seagulls wheeling overhead.

The first thing that struck me was how close everything felt. A minute’s stroll and we were on the sand, shoes kicked off, toes testing the North Sea chill while the dog raced after a rogue tennis ball. Back at the cottage the kettle was already on—thankfully someone had left proper biscuits—and we claimed our spots on the squishy sofas, sandy feet tucked beneath us. The front room caught the afternoon light just enough to make the stack of board games on the sideboard look inviting rather than dusty.

After a quick unpack we wandered down to the harbour, where fishing boats bobbed and the smell of chips drifted from a kiosk that seemed permanently busy. The kids chose cones topped with flakes; I chose the bench with the best view of Coquet Island and pretended I wasn’t already calculating how many more portions we’d need before the week was out. Back at the cottage the garden proved handy for cricket, the ball occasionally sailing over next door’s fence to polite apologies from our eldest.

That evening we grilled sausages on the little barbecue and ate at the picnic table while the sky turned peach above the rooftops. The children grew quieter as bedtime approached, lulled by the soft hush of waves we could just hear if we stopped talking. I found myself watching them and wondering why it always takes a wonky satnav and an unexpected detour to remind me how little we actually need: sand between the toes, warm food, and a cottage door that clicks shut on the rest of the world.