We’d been on the road since stupid o’clock, the M27 dragging on forever, and by the time the Wightlink ferry finally nudged into Fishbourne I was half convinced we’d taken a wrong turn and ended up in France. The satnav then decided the final stretch to Shanklin needed an impromptu detour down a lane that was basically a hedge with ideas above its station. A low-hanging branch took a swipe at the roof box and sent a rogue flip-flop tumbling into the brambles; by the time I’d fished it out we were both laughing like idiots and already late for check-in.

Still, the moment we rounded the last bend and the cottage came into view, the mood shifted. Ten Bed Cottage sat just far enough back from the road to feel tucked away, yet a two-minute wander down the slope put us right on the edge of Shanklin’s sandy stretch. The front door stuck a little—classic seaside damp—but the key turned with a satisfying clunk and we stepped into that unmistakable holiday smell of polished wood and faint salt air.

The kitchen was bigger than our entire London flat, which meant the first job was a proper cup of tea while the others claimed beds. From the upstairs windows you could just about see the pier if you leaned out far enough, and the faint crash of waves carried in on the breeze. We dumped bags, kicked off shoes, and wandered straight back out again, drawn by the promise of fish and chips eaten on the sea wall before the light faded.

It’s funny how quickly the journey melts away once you’re actually there. All that motorway tedium and the flip-flop incident suddenly felt like the necessary price for this view and the sound of kids screeching on the beach below. Standing there, still in travel clothes and slightly windswept, I realised the real holiday had already started the second we stopped rushing.