We’d been on the road for nearly four hours when the satnav decided to send us down a lane so narrow the wing mirrors practically kissed the hedgerows. I was convinced we’d end up in someone’s garden when the turning for Dovecote finally appeared, tucked just off a quiet road a short stroll from Kingsdown beach. The relief was instant—until I opened the car door straight into a rogue gust and watched my half-eaten pasty sail majestically into a puddle. Typical.

Still, the cottage itself looked exactly like the photos promised: a neat, weather-boarded little place with a pale blue door and a view straight across the garden to the sea. My partner was already grinning as we stepped inside, the faint smell of woodsmoke and fresh linen greeting us like an old friend. The kitchen was small but perfectly formed, with a kettle that boiled in record time—vital after the pasty incident—and mugs waiting on the side as if they’d known we were coming.

We left the bags by the stairs and wandered straight out again, shoes crunching on the shingle path that led to the beach. It was only a couple of minutes’ walk, yet it felt like stepping into another world: the tide was out, the sky streaked with late-afternoon light, and a few locals were walking their dogs along the water’s edge. Back at the cottage, the little patio caught the last of the sun, and we sat with tea in hand, listening to the distant rush of waves and the occasional cry of a gull overhead.

What struck me most was how quickly the journey stress melted away. One minute we were bickering about which turning we’d missed, the next we were watching the sea turn silver and feeling properly, gloriously still. I hadn’t realised how much I needed that shift until it happened.