I’d only been on the road an hour when the sat-nav decided we were taking a scenic detour via a farm track that turned out to be more pothole than path. By the time we bumped into the little car park behind Bothy Cottage, my partner was laughing and I was muttering about “never trusting technology again.” The cottage itself looked exactly like the photos—whitewashed stone, slate roof, a red door that stuck slightly when you pushed it—but the real welcome was the view straight over the dunes to the North Sea, glinting in that rare, late-spring sunshine.

We’d planned a proper coastal walk straight after unpacking, boots on and sandwiches packed, but the weather had other ideas. One minute it was shirtsleeves and the promise of a long loop south along the beach; the next, a brisk wind whipped up from nowhere, carrying the sort of sideways drizzle that soaks you before you’ve even left the garden gate. We stood in the doorway like a pair of undecided seagulls, then shrugged, swapped boots for trainers, and set off anyway, hoods up and spirits still high.

The path hugs the clifftop for the first mile or so, grass springy underfoot and skylarks doing their best to drown out the wind. Even with the weather turning, it felt good to be moving—salt on your lips, the odd rabbit darting across the track, and that endless grey-blue horizon keeping you company. We made it as far as the little wooden stile that marks where the dunes start to flatten, then the rain properly arrived. We ducked into the shelter of an old stone wall, shared slightly squashed cheese sandwiches, and watched a couple of hardy surfers in wetsuits bobbing about below like optimistic seals.

By the time we wandered back, the sun had decided to reappear, turning the wet sand into a mirror and coaxing a rainbow out over the water. We peeled off damp layers in the little porch, put the kettle on, and sat with mugs by the open door, feet sandy and hair full of salt. It struck me, watching a curlew pick its way along the tideline, how often our best days out here start with a change of plan. The cottage didn’t mind; it just waited, solid and warm, ready for whatever the coast threw at us next.