We’d been on the road for what felt like days by the time we finally turned off the A1 and bumped along the single-track lane towards Pipistrelle. The sat-nav kept insisting we were “arriving on the right in 200 yards,” but after the third time it sent us past a field of sheep, I started to suspect it was having its own little holiday. By the time the whitewashed cottage came into view, the sun was already sliding towards the dunes and my patience was hanging by a thread.

The funny thing was, I’d been so determined to make a graceful entrance that I completely forgot about the low lintel above the back door. One enthusiastic duck with the suitcases and I caught it square on the forehead, sending both bags and dignity tumbling onto the gravel. My partner dissolved into laughter while I stood there rubbing my head and trying to look as though I’d meant to inspect the doorstep that closely. It set the tone nicely: nothing was going to be polished or perfect, and that was fine by us.

Once we’d got the door open and the kettle on, the cottage felt instantly welcoming. The kitchen was small but thoughtfully laid out, with mugs already waiting on the drainer and a little welcome card propped against the toaster. We wandered through to the living room, where a pair of well-loved armchairs faced a wood-burner and a low window that framed the sea like a painting. Even with the heating just kicking in, you could smell salt on the air drifting through the slightly open casement.

We left the unpacking for later and stepped straight out onto the little patio. The tide was out, leaving a wide stretch of ridged sand that caught the last of the light in soft pinks and greys. Bamburgh Castle sat on its hill a couple of miles up the coast, looking exactly like it does on every postcard, only smaller and somehow more real. I found myself standing there longer than I’d planned, coat still half-buttoned, just listening to the quiet rush of waves and the occasional cry of a gull.

It struck me, as the chill finally crept under my collar, how rarely I arrive anywhere without an agenda. Usually there’s a list—walks, pubs, photos for Instagram—but the bump on my head and the simplicity of the cottage seemed to have wiped it clean. For once the only plan was to watch the sky change colour and maybe find fish and chips before it got properly dark. Standing there, suitcase still in the hallway and forehead gently throbbing, I felt oddly content. Sometimes the best first impressions are the ones that arrive by accident.