We'd barely got the satnav sorted before the journey turned into a proper comedy sketch. I'd confidently told the others we were only ten minutes from the cottage, then watched in horror as the road narrowed into a single track with a tractor coming the other way. Cue frantic reversing into a muddy gateway while the kids dissolved into giggles and my partner muttered something about "trusting the driver next time." By the time we pulled up outside the little whitewashed 4 Bed Cottage in Bideford, we were all a bit windswept and ready for tea.

The cottage sat just a short stroll from the beach path, tucked behind a low stone wall with a cheerful red door that seemed to say "come on in, shoes off." Inside it felt instantly homely – the sort of place where the kettle's already on the Aga and someone’s left a note about the best fish and chips in town. We dumped the bags in the hallway and wandered through the rooms, discovering a cosy lounge with squashy sofas and a dining table big enough for board games later. Upstairs the bedrooms were simple and welcoming, the kind where you can hear the seagulls and smell the salt on the breeze through slightly open windows.

After a quick cuppa we decided to stretch our legs before unpacking properly. The beach was literally minutes away, a wide sweep of sand with rock pools at the edges where the children immediately crouched to poke at crabs. We walked along the tideline, shoes in hand, letting the cold water nip at our toes while the dog – borrowed for the week from my sister – charged after every bit of seaweed. There’s something wonderfully grounding about that first afternoon by the sea; you arrive frazzled from motorways and roundabouts, and within half an hour you’re breathing slower, shoulders dropping, wondering why you don’t do this more often.

Back at the cottage we raided the well-stocked kitchen for pasta and jarred sauce, the sort of meal that feels like a feast when you’re eating it with sand still between your toes. The evening light slanted through the sitting-room window as we played a half-hearted game of Uno, the kind where someone always accuses someone else of cheating. I caught myself watching the kids laughing and felt that familiar tug of wanting to bottle the moment, to remember how ordinary and perfect it all was.

Later, with the windows open and the sound of waves drifting in, I lay in bed thinking about the ridiculous reversing episode that morning. It seemed funny now, a tiny reminder that even the best-laid plans go sideways, and sometimes that’s exactly what makes a holiday feel real. Tomorrow we’d probably do it all again – beach, rock pools, maybe a cream tea if we could be bothered – but for tonight it was enough just to be here, salt in our hair, sand in the hallway, and the gentle hush of the Devon coast outside.