We’d barely left the M20 when the satnav decided we were in a field. One wrong turn later we were bumping down a single-track lane, hedge scraping the wing mirror, and I was muttering about technology while my partner calmly pointed out we’d already passed the turning twice. By the time we pulled up outside Solton Manor, the boot was half open, a rogue carrier bag had escaped into the brambles, and we both looked like we’d wrestled a small gale.

The cottage itself sat just back from the shingle, a solid old place with big windows and a slightly lopsided chimney. We were still wrestling with the key safe when a voice called across the lane. “You the London lot?” It belonged to Maureen, who was walking two Jack Russells and didn’t seem to need an answer. She gave us a brisk once-over, then offered that the tide would be “right daft” tomorrow and we’d best not park on the lower track. Before we could ask why, she was already moving on, dogs trotting like they knew the schedule.

Inside, the kitchen still smelled faintly of toast from whoever had stayed before. We were putting the kettle on when there was a gentle tap at the back door. It was Trevor from the next cottage along, holding a spare torch “just in case the electric does its usual.” He stayed for a cuppa, explaining between sips that the beach path floods at the third stile and that the local heron has a personal grudge against anyone wearing red. I laughed, then realised he wasn’t joking.

Later we wandered down to the shingle for a quick look. A woman with a fishing rod and a woolly hat despite the mild evening nodded as we passed. “First-timers?” she asked, and when we admitted we were, she reeled in an empty line just to chat. Her name was Linda; she’d lived in the row of houses opposite the manor for thirty years and still hadn’t got used to the wind changing its mind every ten minutes. She pointed out which pub did the best chips and warned us that the honesty box for eggs on the farm track sometimes got raided by teenagers on bikes.

Back at the cottage, the lights flickered once, just enough to remind us of Trevor’s torch. We sat on the low wall outside with mugs of tea, listening to the sea and the occasional bark from Maureen’s dogs somewhere up the lane. I caught myself thinking how little we’d actually unpacked and how much we’d already been told by people we’d met for five minutes. It felt less like arriving somewhere new and more like being gently absorbed into a conversation that had been going on long before we got here.