We’d only just pulled into the little lane behind Coast Guard House when the satnav cheerfully announced we’d arrived – right as our youngest decided the boot needed a full reorganisation. One rogue carrier bag of snacks burst open on the gravel, scattering crisps like confetti, and for a moment it looked as though the seagulls had already claimed their welcome gift.

Still laughing, we wrestled the cases inside and the first thing that hit us was the smell: salt air mixed with the faint sweetness of the honeysuckle that scrambled over the whitewashed wall. The cottage sat just a pebble’s throw from the shingle, its upstairs windows giving an uninterrupted view of the pale strip of Herne Bay beach and the pier stretching out like a patient fisherman’s rod. Inside, everything felt reassuringly simple – a squashy sofa that had clearly hosted many sandy feet, a kitchen table big enough for board games, and a little porch where wellies could drip without complaint.

After the inevitable crisp sweep-up, we wandered the few steps to the shoreline. The tide was out, leaving wide, damp stretches perfect for wellie prints and the odd bit of driftwood sculpture. Our eldest collected shells while the youngest attempted to race the waves and lost, returning with soggy cuffs and a grin. Back at the cottage we made tea in mismatched mugs and sat on the bench outside, watching the light slide across the water. It struck me, between sips, how rarely we pause like this – no agenda, just the rhythm of waves and the low chatter of gulls.

Later we strolled the short path along the sea wall into Herne Bay itself, picking up fish and chips wrapped in paper that steamed in the evening air. Eating them back on the porch, with salt on our fingers and the faint creak of the cottage sign in the breeze, felt like the proper start to a proper break. No grand plans, just the quiet pleasure of being exactly where we were.