We’d barely turned off the ferry at Fishbourne when the satnav decided to send us the scenic route through a housing estate that wasn’t on any map. Ten minutes later we were wedged between two wheelie bins while a chap in a high-vis vest leaned on his hedge and watched with mild interest. “You after the five-bed in East Cowes?” he asked, as though we’d advertised the fact. We admitted we were, and he pointed us back the way we’d come with the sort of cheerful certainty that made us instantly forgive the detour.

By the time we pulled up outside the cottage, the light was already softening over the Solent and the key safe was exactly where the owner had promised. The place itself felt instantly welcoming—wide enough for our lot without feeling echoey, with a kitchen that looked ready for a proper fry-up and a garden that sloped gently toward the shingle. We’d only just dropped the bags when the neighbour from two doors down wandered over with a trug of early tomatoes and the opening line, “You’ll be wanting to know where the tide turns quickest, then?”

Her name was Maureen, and within five minutes we’d learned she’d lived in the same terrace since the seventies, kept a running tally of which holidaymakers returned, and considered herself the unofficial beach warden. “Mind the groynes after dark,” she warned, tapping the side of her nose. “They’ve got a reputation for collecting trainers.” We promised to be careful, and she left us with a handwritten note of the best fish-and-chip order down the parade.

Later that afternoon, while we were attempting to unfold the garden chairs without swearing, a retired ferry engineer called Derek appeared at the gate with a spaniel called Biscuit. He’d spotted our number plate and wanted to know if we’d come across on the new timetable. We hadn’t, but that didn’t stop him delivering a ten-minute masterclass on wind directions and how they affect the crossing time. Biscuit, meanwhile, had already claimed the shady patch under the picnic table as his own.

By evening the sky had turned that particular Isle of Wight pink, and we wandered the short stretch of beach with takeaway chips in paper. A young couple pushing a buggy stopped to ask if we’d seen their dog’s ball; we hadn’t, but Maureen’s earlier tip about the groynes proved useful and the ball was duly retrieved. In return they offered us the name of the quietest bench for watching the last boats come in.

Back at the cottage, kettle on, we sat in the half-light of the kitchen and admitted we’d barely unpacked yet already felt woven into the place. It struck me, not for the first time, how a single wrong turn and a few open garden gates can turn a stranger’s house into something that already feels half-familiar.