We’d barely turned off the main road when the satnav decided we were already at the cottage and cheerfully announced we’d arrived in someone’s driveway. My husband reversed out with all the dignity of a man trying not to look lost, and five minutes later we pulled up outside the right place – a tidy, whitewashed cottage tucked just back from the dunes at Northam.

The key was waiting under the flowerpot as promised, and the moment we stepped inside the smell of woodsmoke and fresh bread hit us. Someone had left a loaf on the counter with a note saying “help yourselves,” and the children were already claiming bedrooms before we’d even put the kettle on. From the upstairs windows you could see the sea, a silvery strip between the marram grass, and the tide was out far enough to show the dark ribs of an old wreck.

After a quick cuppa we wandered down the short lane to the beach with nothing but buckets and a blanket. The sand was still warm from the afternoon sun, and the kids immediately began digging a moat that kept filling with seawater no matter how fast they worked. I sat with my back against a bit of driftwood and watched a couple of surfers wobble about on the small waves, wondering why we don’t do this more often. It’s funny how quickly the usual rush of “have we packed everything, did we lock the back door” fades once you’re somewhere this simple.

We stayed until the light started to go, then trailed sandy footprints back to the cottage and cooked sausages on the little barbecue that lives in the garden shed. The children ate theirs straight off the sticks, ketchup on their chins, while we sat on the low wall listening to the waves and the occasional call of a curlew over the Burrows. Later, once everyone was in bed, I stood at the open door with a mug of tea and watched the stars come out above the rooftops. There’s something quietly reassuring about knowing the sea is just there, a few minutes’ walk away, doing what it always does whether you’re watching or not.