We’d been on the road for hours by the time we finally turned off the main road towards Woolacombe, and I was starting to question why we’d ever thought a “quick” Friday escape from Bristol would be anything of the sort. The satnav kept insisting we were nearly there, yet every bend seemed to reveal another field rather than the sea. Then came the tiny mishap: I’d confidently assured everyone that our postcode would take us right to the door, only to discover I’d typed it in with one digit swapped. We ended up reversing down a farm track while a very unimpressed sheep watched from the hedge, the children in the back already chanting “are we there yet?” like a broken record.

By the time we corrected our route and rolled into the village, the light was softening and Woolacombe Bay stretched out below us in that gentle, late-afternoon haze. The cottage sat just a short stroll from the sand, its whitewashed walls catching the last of the sun and its little front garden dotted with pots of lavender that bobbed in the breeze. We fumbled with the key safe for a moment—more my fault than the lock’s—before stepping inside to the smell of fresh bread someone had considerately left on the side.

The space felt instantly welcoming: a wide kitchen with enough room for all of us to unpack shopping without elbowing each other, a cosy living room where the sofas looked like they’d hosted plenty of post-beach naps, and big windows framing the curve of the bay. Upstairs, the bedrooms were simple but spotless, each with crisp linens and the faint scent of laundry powder. I caught myself pausing on the landing, suddenly aware of how tightly I’d been gripping the steering wheel for the last hundred miles; here, the only sound was the distant hush of waves and the occasional gull calling overhead.

We didn’t unpack straight away. Instead we wandered down the lane, shoes already kicked off, and let the children race ahead onto the sand while we followed more slowly, breathing in that unmistakable mix of salt and warm grass. The tide was out, leaving wide stretches perfect for aimless strolling, and I found myself laughing at how quickly the journey’s frustrations had melted away. Standing there, toes sinking into the cool, damp sand, I realised the mishap on the farm track had done us a favour—it had forced us to slow down before we’d even arrived, and now the cottage and the bay felt like the proper beginning of the holiday rather than just its backdrop.