We’d barely turned off the A1 when the satnav decided we were better off in a field. One wrong turn later we were bouncing down a single-track lane with the cottage key rattling in the cup holder and a very unimpressed sheep staring us down. By the time we found the right turning for Red Row I was convinced we’d be sleeping in the car.

The cottage itself was exactly where the photos promised—tucked behind a low stone wall, with the sea just visible over the dunes. We dragged the bags inside, flicked on the kettle, and headed straight back out for milk. The little shop by the crossroads turned out to be more of a front room with shelves, and the woman behind the till introduced herself as Maureen before we’d even said hello. “You’ll be the ones from the cottage with the wonky satnav, then?” she asked, and I realised the sheep probably had a Facebook group.

While she fetched the milk, a man in a flat cap—Bill, it turned out—appeared from the back with a collie at his heels. “First time here?” he said. “Don’t mind the wind; it just means the fish are biting.” Within five minutes we’d heard about the best bench for watching the tide turn, the pub that still did proper gravy, and the precise spot on the beach where last winter’s storm had uncovered an old anchor. Maureen chipped in that the anchor was “more rust than relic” but kept a surprisingly good photo on her phone.

Back outside, the collie decided our shoelaces needed inspecting, which gave Bill time to ask whether we’d brought wellies. “Sand gets everywhere,” he warned, “but the sunsets make up for it.” We promised to report back on both.

That evening we wandered down to the dunes with fish and chips wrapped in yesterday’s paper. Two lads on bikes slowed to ask if we’d seen their dog—a black-and-white border collie that sounded suspiciously like Bill’s. We hadn’t, but they seemed cheered by the possibility that it was “just showing off again.” A little further on an older couple waved us over to point out the exact shade of pink the sky had turned. “Better than telly,” the wife said, and I couldn’t argue.

Lying in bed later, listening to the hush of waves instead of traffic, I caught myself wondering how many of these small exchanges we’d have missed if the satnav hadn’t gone rogue. The cottage felt less like four walls and more like the place locals nod to when they pass.