We’d barely left the M5 when the satnav decided to play silly beggars, sending us down a lane so narrow the wing mirrors practically kissed the hedgerows. By the time we pulled into the little gravel turning space at Hunters Moon, the car was dusted with leaves and my pride was slightly dented, but the view more than made up for it. The cottage sat just above the curve of the bay, its pale stone glowing in the late-afternoon light, and the sound of waves already drifting up the slope.

After wrestling the key from the lockbox we stepped inside to that unmistakable seaside-cottage smell—woodsmoke, salt, and faintly of whatever the last family had cooked. The living room was low-ceilinged and cosy, with squashy sofas pulled up to a wood burner that looked ready for an evening in. Upstairs, the bedrooms had the sort of simple, ship-shape feel that makes you want to kick off your shoes and stay a while. We dumped the bags, made a quick cuppa in the little galley kitchen, and headed straight back out; the beach was calling.

It’s only a short wander down the lane—five minutes if you’re not stopping to gawp at every view—and soon we were kicking off trainers on the warm sand. The tide was out, leaving wide, firm stretches perfect for the kids to race about while we adults trailed behind with the picnic blanket. We found a spot near a cluster of rocks and watched the gulls wheel overhead, the sun turning the water a soft silver. Someone produced a packet of biscuits that didn’t survive long, and we sat there until the light started to fade and the breeze picked up.

Back at the cottage the evening felt wonderfully unhurried. We lit the fire, even though it wasn’t strictly necessary, and the room filled with that gentle crackle that always seems louder when you’re away from home. Supper was nothing fancy—just pasta and whatever veg we’d grabbed on the way—but eating it at the scrubbed table with the windows open to the sea air felt like a small luxury. Later, once the children were tucked in, I stepped out onto the little patio and listened to the hush of the waves below. It struck me how rarely we manage this kind of simple pause; how easy it is, in ordinary life, to keep moving without noticing the sky change colour or the way the air tastes different by the coast.

Next morning we woke to sunlight slanting across the duvet and the distant cry of oystercatchers. There was talk of a proper cooked breakfast, but in the end we settled for toast and jam eaten on the doorstep, watching the tide creep in again. The mishap on the journey already felt like a distant memory, replaced by the steady rhythm of beach walks, second cups of tea, and the quiet satisfaction of having nowhere else we needed to be.