We’d been on the road since half-five that morning, and by the time the ferry finally chugged into Fishbourne I was convinced my satnav had developed a personal grudge. The last stretch along the coast road felt endless, especially once the children started a game of “spot the slowest tractor.” When we finally turned into Whitecliff Bay Holiday Park, the relief was instant—until I managed to clip the wing mirror on the low wooden gatepost while squeezing past an incoming caravan. Nothing dramatic, just that unmistakable crunch that makes every head in the queue turn your way. I reversed with exaggerated care, cheeks burning, and parked up feeling like the newest arrival on a very public stage.

The cottage itself sat just beyond the main reception, a neat little chalet tucked behind a low hedge with a view straight across the grass to the dunes. The key was in a little lockbox by the door, and once we stepped inside the smell of fresh linen and faint sea air greeted us like an old friend. The living area was open-plan and bright, with a couple of sofas that looked ready for rainy-day board games and a small dining table already set with mismatched mugs. Out on the decking, two plastic chairs faced the water; I could just make out the tide line and the faint sound of waves over the chatter of families unpacking nearby.

After the long drive, the children were desperate to stretch their legs, so we wandered the short path that leads straight onto the sand. The beach here curves gently, dotted with the occasional rock pool and the odd brightly coloured windbreak already claiming its spot for the afternoon. We didn’t go far—just far enough for the boys to collect a handful of shells and for me to realise my shoes were now full of grit. Back at the chalet, I made tea in the little kitchen while they argued over who got the top bunk, the kettle clicking off with a satisfying snap that felt like home.

What struck me most in those first hours wasn’t the view or the facilities, but how quickly the journey stress slipped away. One daft wing-mirror moment and suddenly we were here, properly here, with nothing more pressing than deciding whether to brave the park’s little shop for ice creams before dinner.