We nearly didn’t make it to The Hideaway at all. I’d printed the wrong page of the directions and we spent twenty minutes circling a roundabout just outside Hove, the satnav calmly insisting we were already there while the dog barked at every passing cyclist. By the time we pulled up outside the little weatherboard cottage, the sun had decided to behave itself and the sea air was doing that salty, optimistic thing it does along this stretch of coast.

The Hideaway sits just far enough from the main road to feel properly tucked away, yet close enough that you can hear the occasional shout from the beach and the soft rumble of the waves if the windows are open. First impressions were all about light—big skylights in the pitched roof, pale wooden floors that had clearly seen a fair few sandy feet already, and a tiny kitchen that still managed to fit a kettle, two mugs and a frankly optimistic number of wine glasses. We dumped our bags, kicked off our shoes and immediately forgot about unpacking.

The first afternoon set the tone for everything that followed. We wandered the short path to the shingle, found a patch of surprisingly warm pebbles and simply sat there, shoes off, doing nothing in particular. Later we drifted back to the cottage garden—more of a sunny strip of decking with two folding chairs—and opened the first proper book of the holiday. Mine was something I’d been meaning to finish for eighteen months; his was a battered thriller he’d already read twice. Neither of us made much progress. The sun moved, the gulls wheeled, and every so often one of us would say “shall we make tea?” without actually moving.

By the second morning the rhythm had settled. Coffee on the deck while the morning ferry slid along the horizon, then a lazy loop along the promenade as far as the nearest café for a second breakfast we didn’t really need. Back at the cottage the day stretched out like warm tarmac. We read, dozed, argued mildly about whose turn it was to fetch more ice for the drinks, and watched the tide creep in and out again. The dog approved of this schedule wholeheartedly and spent most of it flat on his side in a patch of sunlight, only stirring when someone rustled a crisp packet.

I’d expected to feel restless without a plan, but the quiet suited us. There’s something about Sussex light—soft, slightly hazy—that makes even doing very little feel like an achievement. By the third evening I caught myself checking train times out of habit, then put the phone down again. The Hideaway didn’t need us to be busy; it just needed us to stay put, let the sun move across the floorboards, and remember how good it feels to have nowhere else to be.