We set off from home later than planned, which meant the last twenty minutes were spent crawling behind a tractor that seemed determined to inspect every hedge. By the time we pulled up outside Miramar, the sun was already low and golden, and I managed to lock the keys in the boot while trying to fish out the welcome pack. Ten minutes of mild panic and one very patient neighbour later, we were in, shoes kicked off, and the kettle was on.

The cottage sat just a short walk from the sand, and the moment we opened the back door the sea air rolled straight through. Nothing dramatic, just that clean, salty smell that makes you breathe deeper without thinking about it. The garden was small and a bit wild, with a wooden bench that caught the evening light perfectly. We sat there with our mugs, watching the tide creep in, and already the idea of “doing things” felt faintly ridiculous.

The next morning we didn’t make plans. We wandered down to the beach with a blanket and a bag of books, found a spot out of the wind, and simply stayed there. The sand was warm underfoot, the waves were steady rather than showy, and after a while the only sounds were gulls and the occasional burst of laughter from a family further along. I read the same page twice because I kept looking up to watch a dog chase its own reflection in the shallows.

Back at Miramar we kept the doors open so the breeze could move through the rooms. Lunch was whatever didn’t need cooking—bread, cheese, and a tomato that had somehow survived the journey—and we ate it slowly on the little patio. The afternoon stretched in that lovely, shapeless way holidays sometimes do. I dozed in a deck chair with a paperback over my face, woke up faintly pink across the nose, and decided that was probably enough achievement for one day.

It’s funny how quickly the usual list of “must-sees” slips away when the weather is kind and the cottage is this close to the water. We talked about maybe driving to a cove a bit further along the coast, then looked at each other and agreed tomorrow sounded soon enough. Instead we stayed put, took another slow walk along the tideline at dusk, and came back to watch the light fade from the garden bench.

By the third day the rhythm felt natural. Mornings on the beach with coffee in takeaway cups, afternoons reading or simply watching the clouds change shape, evenings cooking simple things while the windows stayed open. I caught myself checking my phone less, not because I’d decided to be virtuous, but because there was genuinely nothing I needed to know right then. The sea kept doing its thing, the sun kept moving across the sky, and Miramar gave us a quiet, comfortable place to notice it all without rushing anywhere.