We set off from home at an ungodly hour, the M5 stretching ahead like a grey ribbon that refused to end. By the time we hit the winding lanes of Cornwall the sky had turned that soft, washed-out blue you only seem to get by the sea. The satnav kept promising “you have arrived” every few minutes, which was optimistic to say the least.

Our first proper Cornish moment came when we tried to squeeze the car down the final track to Atlantic Reach. I’d glanced at the photos online and assumed two wheels on the grass verge would be fine. It wasn’t. We ended up wedged against a Cornish hedge, the passenger door pinned shut by a determined bramble. My partner had to climb over the handbrake like a reluctant gymnast while I laughed so hard the key fob slipped down the side of the seat.

Once we’d freed ourselves and the luggage, the cottage felt like an instant reward. Atlantic Reach sits just above the dunes, its slate roof catching the late light and the windows already framing a slice of Mount’s Bay. The front garden was nothing more than a strip of rough grass and a bench, but the view more than made up for it: St Michael’s Mount rising in the middle distance, the tide far out and the causeway a faint line across the sand.

Inside, everything smelt faintly of woodsmoke and fresh linen. We dropped bags in the little porch and wandered through the open-plan living space, fingers trailing along the back of the squashy sofa as if checking it was real. From the kitchen window we could see the path that led, supposedly, straight onto the beach. It was only a couple of minutes’ walk, the owner had said, though after the bramble incident we decided to test that claim with trainers rather than optimism.

We wandered down at golden hour, shoes dangling from our hands. The sand was still warm underfoot and almost empty, just a couple walking their spaniel and a child with a bucket that seemed far too big for her. I stood for a moment letting the breeze do its usual trick of rearranging my hair into something that belonged on a scarecrow. It struck me, not for the first time, how quickly the stress of the motorway dissolves once you’re properly beside the sea.

Back at the cottage the kettle whistled and we carried mismatched mugs out to the bench. The air had cooled but the horizon was still glowing. We didn’t talk much; the journey had done most of the talking for us. All that remained was the soft hush of waves and the distant call of a curlew somewhere along the tideline.