We’d only just pulled up outside 4 Woodland Park when the satnav decided we’d arrived in a hedge. I reversed into a rosemary bush, scattering a family of sparrows and earning a slow clap from the chap next door, who was deadheading roses in his slippers. “You Londoners do like a dramatic entrance,” he called, and that was that—our holiday had begun with an audience.

He introduced himself as Trevor, retired postman and self-appointed keeper of the lane. Before I’d even popped the boot he was explaining which seagull was the local thief and why the tide timetable pinned to his shed door was more reliable than any app. His wife, Maureen, appeared with two mugs of tea “for the shock,” and within minutes we were sat on their low wall being told which bakery still did proper pasties and which one had “gone all Instagram.”

Further down the lane we met young Sam, who was walking his excitable spaniel, Biscuit. Sam couldn’t have been more than twenty but already had strong opinions on the best rock-pooling spots and the correct way to eat a cream tea (“jam first, obviously—anyone who says otherwise is from up-country”). He offered to lend us his net if we promised not to post any “cringe” photos, then wandered off whistling, Biscuit bounding after a dropped pasty wrapper.

By the time we reached the short path to the beach we’d collected an entire committee. Old Mrs Penberthy was pegging out tea towels and paused only to warn us about the incoming wind and to ask whether we’d brought enough jumpers. Her grandson, little Alfie, was busy burying a toy tractor in the sand and solemnly informed us the best shells were “over there, but you have to say please to the sea first.” We promised we would.

Back at the cottage, Trevor reappeared with a spare key “just in case the door sticks when the wind’s from the east,” and Maureen slipped us a small pot of her homemade blackberry jam with a wink. I stood in the narrow hallway, cases still by the door, and realised we hadn’t even unpacked yet we already knew half the postcode by name. The mishap with the rosemary bush had turned into an impromptu welcome committee, and I felt oddly grateful for the satnav’s poor sense of direction.