We’d barely made it past the sign for Carbis Bay when the satnav decided we needed a closer look at a hedge. One wrong turn down a lane so narrow the wing mirrors kissed the brambles and we were stuck, laughing like idiots while a tractor driver kindly reversed us out. By the time we pulled up at Starboard the cottage felt like the reward for surviving our own navigation skills.

The front door opened straight onto a patio that caught the afternoon sun, and the first thing I did was kick off my shoes. Inside, the kitchen was already stocked with the bits we’d asked for – milk in the fridge, bread on the counter – so there was nothing to do except make tea and carry the mugs outside. From the garden you could hear the sea, not loud, just a steady hush that made the rest of the world feel optional.

We spent the rest of that first day doing almost nothing on purpose. The patio chairs were too comfortable to ignore, so we stayed put, books open but pages barely turned, watching gulls wheel over the rooftops. Every so often one of us would remember we had a beach practically on the doorstep and we’d wander down the short path, toes in the sand within minutes. The tide was out, leaving wide, firm stretches perfect for slow strolls that somehow always ended with us sitting on a rock instead of actually going anywhere.

Back at the cottage the evening crept in softly. We lit the barbecue that came with the place, cooked far too many sausages, and ate them off paper plates because washing up felt like effort. Later, wrapped in blankets on the same patio, we watched the sky turn that particular Cornish pink that never lasts long enough. I caught myself thinking how rarely I let a whole day pass without a list, and how good it felt to have nothing on it.

The next morning followed the same gentle pattern. Coffee on the patio again, then a second trip to the beach because the first one had been cut short by the need for more suncream. We took a blanket this time and stayed until our shoulders were warm and our books had acquired a light dusting of sand. Back at Starboard the windows were open, letting in that clean, salty breeze that makes even supermarket ham sandwiches taste like a feast.

By the third day I’d stopped checking my phone except to take pictures of the view from the bedroom window – rooftops, a slice of turquoise water, and the occasional red sail. The mishap on the lane already felt like it belonged to someone else; all that remained was the quiet satisfaction of having nowhere else to be.