We set off from the A39 with the usual optimism, windows down and the kids arguing over who got the last mint, when the satnav decided to send us down a lane so narrow the wing mirrors started brushing the hedges. A moment later we were wedged between a dry-stone wall and a tractor coming the other way, and my attempt at a three-point turn turned into a five-point shuffle that left us all laughing and slightly pink. By the time we finally bumped into the little gravelled parking spot at Sea Mist, the relief was almost as big as the view.

The cottage sits just above Polzeath beach, tucked behind a low wall with a wooden gate that squeaks in a friendly way. From the doorstep you can hear the tide on the sand and smell salt on the breeze, and the first thing the children did was kick off their shoes and race down the short path to the dunes. We followed more slowly, carrying the cool-bag and the beach mat, already feeling the pace drop.

Inside, Sea Mist is exactly the sort of place that makes you exhale. Pale walls, squashy sofas, and a kitchen table big enough for board games and sandy feet. The kettle went on straight away, and while it boiled we wandered through the French doors onto the little deck. Someone had left two striped deckchairs facing the water, and we claimed them without discussion. From there the beach looks close enough to touch, a wide sweep of sand that was already dotted with families building castles and dogs chasing frisbees.

Later we wandered down for our first proper look. The tide was out, leaving firm, damp sand perfect for barefoot walking, and the children found rock pools almost immediately. I stood for a moment watching them poke at anemones with sticks, and it struck me how rarely we just stand still like this at home. No emails, no school run, just the sound of gulls and the occasional shout of someone catching a wave further out.

Back at the cottage the evening settled gently. We grilled sausages on the little barbecue that lives by the shed, ate them at the table with our elbows touching, and let the youngest fall asleep on the sofa before nine. I caught myself scrolling through photos on my phone and realised I hadn’t taken a single picture of the inside of the cottage yet; somehow the view through the window had been enough.

As the light faded we left the doors open and listened to the sea. It felt like the simplest sort of holiday, the kind where the biggest decision is whether to walk to the beach café for an ice cream or stay put with a book. Already the narrow lane and the wonky arrival felt like part of the story, the sort of small chaos that makes you appreciate the calm even more. Tomorrow we might do the same thing all over again, and that suited us perfectly.