We’d barely made it off the ferry when the satnav decided we’d had enough of sensible directions and sent us down a lane so narrow the wing mirrors were practically kissing the hedges. By the time we pulled up outside the four-bed cottage in Sandown, the boys were arguing about whose turn it was to carry the cool box and I was still laughing at my own mistake of ignoring the “left at the pub” instruction from the owner.

The cottage sat just far enough from the road to feel properly tucked away, with a little gravel drive and a wooden gate that squeaked in a friendly way. The moment we stepped inside, the smell of toast from someone’s breakfast still hung in the air, and the living room welcomed us with big squashy sofas and a view straight out to the garden. The boys immediately claimed the twin room with the bunk beds, leaving my husband and me the quieter double at the back.

After unpacking the bare essentials—swimming kits, a packet of biscuits, and far too many chargers—we wandered the short distance to the beach. Sandown’s stretch of sand was already dotted with families setting up windbreaks and grandparents reading paperbacks in deckchairs. We claimed a spot near the promenade, where the boys could race between the sea and the ice-cream van without us losing sight of them. The water was that familiar British mix of bracing and oddly inviting, and after the first shriek from the youngest we all joined in, splashing about until our fingers went wrinkly.

Back at the cottage the garden proved just as useful as the beach. A couple of folding chairs under the little apple tree made the perfect spot for a cup of tea while the children played with a tatty tennis ball they’d found in the utility room. I sat there watching them and realised how rarely we manage to switch off like this—no telly on in the background, no rush to be anywhere else. The mishap on the way down already felt like part of the story rather than a nuisance, and the cottage itself seemed content to let us fill it at our own pace.

By late afternoon the light had that soft, late-summer glow, and we strolled back along the seafront for fish and chips in paper, eaten on a bench overlooking the pier. The boys were sandy, slightly sunburnt, and happier than they’d been in weeks. Sitting there with salt on my fingers and the sound of the waves behind us, I found myself thinking that sometimes the best holidays are the ones that start with a wrong turn and end with nothing more complicated than a full washing line and tired, contented children.