We’d been on the road for hours, the M25 doing its usual impression of a car park, when I decided the satnav must be having a laugh. One wrong turn later we were bumping down a narrow lane that definitely wasn’t the coastal road, the cottage key rattling in the glovebox like it knew something we didn’t. By the time we finally pulled up outside the little whitewashed 2 Bed Cottage in Lancing, the sun was low and my pride was lower.

The front garden was barely more than a strip of gravel and a hopeful pot of lavender, but after that endless drive it looked like paradise. The key turned with a satisfying clunk and we stepped straight into a cosy lounge where the sofa seemed to say, “Go on, sit down, you’ve earned it.” A faint smell of sea air drifted in through the open window, mixed with something toastier that turned out to be the owner’s welcome note and a packet of shortbread on the sideboard.

We dumped the bags and wandered straight through to the kitchen, all pale units and a kettle that boiled in seconds flat. I made tea while my other half opened the back door and let out the sort of contented sigh that only happens when you realise the beach is literally at the end of the road. From the patio we could see the shingle stretching away, a few dog-walkers and the odd brave soul in a wetsuit catching the last waves. It felt close enough to taste the salt.

Upstairs the bedrooms were simple and neat, the kind of rooms that make you want to unpack properly instead of living out of a suitcase. One had a view straight over rooftops to the sea; the other looked onto a quiet lane where kids were still playing cricket against a garage door. We chose beds without discussion, the way you do when you’re both too tired to argue.

Back downstairs I caught my reflection in the hall mirror and laughed. My hair was doing something the sea breeze would soon make worse, and there was a faint smear of motorway coffee on my top. For a moment I felt the usual holiday guilt about not having planned everything perfectly, but it faded as quickly as it came. We hadn’t needed a grand entrance; we’d just needed to arrive, drop the bags, and feel the day finally loosen its grip.

Outside, gulls wheeled over the rooftops and the air had that soft, late-afternoon chill that makes you reach for a jumper. We stepped onto the lane with nowhere particular to go, just the sudden, simple pleasure of knowing the next few days would be measured in tides and tea breaks rather than traffic.