We’d barely turned off the main road when the satnav decided we were taking a scenic detour via someone’s driveway, and before I knew it we were wedged between two parked cars with the cottage just visible across the lane. After a bit of polite reversing and one very understanding neighbour, we finally pulled up outside the 4 Bed Cottage in Instow, the key safe clicking open like it had been waiting for us. The front garden was already bathed in late-afternoon sun, and the smell of salt and warm grass hit us the moment we stepped out of the car.

Inside, everything felt instantly homely: wide sofas, a big kitchen table scattered with leaflets about local walks, and upstairs windows that looked straight out towards the water. We dumped our bags, changed into shorts, and headed straight down the lane to the beach, promising ourselves we’d unpack properly later. The tide was out, the sand still warm underfoot, and we wandered along the shore until our feet met the start of the coastal path that hugs the edge of the estuary.

We’d planned a gentle three-mile loop towards Westleigh and back, but the weather had other ideas. One minute we were strolling in shirtsleeves, the next a sudden warm shower swept in off the water, sending us scurrying under a handy stand of trees. We laughed at our own optimism—no coats, just a shared cap—and waited it out, watching the droplets race each other down the leaves. When the sun returned we carried on, trainers squelching slightly, the path now steaming gently in the unexpected heat.

Further along, the trail opened onto low cliffs where the breeze felt cooler and the views stretched across the water to the opposite shore. We stopped often, partly for the scenery and partly because the steep little ups and downs were tougher than they looked on the map. Every so often a dog would trot past with its owner, both looking far more prepared than we were, and we made a quiet pact to check the forecast properly tomorrow. Still, there was something freeing about letting the weather steer us instead of the other way round.

By the time we looped back into Instow the light had turned golden and the benches along the front were filling with people nursing pints from the pub. We grabbed takeaway fish and chips, sat on the low wall overlooking the sand, and watched a small sailing boat drift in on the last of the tide. My shoulders ached in that pleasant, earned way, and I found myself thinking how rarely we let a single afternoon unfold without a rigid plan.

Back at the cottage the windows were still open, letting in the soft evening air and the faint sound of waves. We kicked off our sandy shoes by the door and promised ourselves an early start the next day—maybe the longer path towards the dunes if the sky stayed kind. For now, though, it was enough to sit in the living room with the last of the light, feet up, already looking forward to whatever small adventure the British weather might hand us tomorrow.