We’d barely turned off the A30 when the satnav decided to send us down a lane so narrow the wing mirrors were practically kissing the hedgerows. I was still laughing at my own terrible parking attempt outside the village shop when the cottage key slid off the dashboard and vanished down the side of the driver’s seat. Ten minutes of rummaging later, with half a packet of mints and an old parking ticket for company, we finally set off again, slightly later and slightly sheepish.

By the time we reached The Old Forge the sun was low and the air smelled of salt and warm stone. The front door opened straight onto a little flagged courtyard where two locals were already deep in conversation over a wheelbarrow of lobsters. “You’ll be the ones from up-country, then?” asked the taller chap, wiping his hands on his overalls. His name was Trev, and within thirty seconds he’d told us the entire history of the forge, the best tide for mackerel, and why his terrier refused to walk past the red phone box. His mate, a wiry woman called Maureen who ran the honesty-box veg stall, chipped in that the cottage’s old bellows still hung in the rafters if we cared to look. We did, and they both came in to point them out, turning what should have been a quiet arrival into an impromptu guided tour.

Over the next hour the kitchen filled with more voices than luggage. A retired fisherman called Reg wandered in with a box of early strawberries “for the new faces,” then stayed to argue gently with Trev about whether the pilchard shoals were coming back. Maureen’s granddaughter popped by for milk money and ended up demonstrating the quickest way to light the Rayburn. Every time we tried to unpack, another neighbour appeared with a tip about the hidden path to the cove or a warning about seagulls that had learned to unzip cool bags. It was impossible to feel like outsiders when everyone treated the place as communal property.

By the time we finally carried our bags upstairs the light had gone and the courtyard was quiet again. I stood at the bedroom window watching the last of the tide slip out and realised I’d spent the entire afternoon talking to strangers instead of unpacking or even checking the view. It felt less like arriving at a holiday let and more like being gently absorbed into someone else’s village.