We’d barely made it past the Dart ferry when the satnav decided to abandon us in favour of a scenic detour through somebody’s back garden. By the time we’d reversed out of the rhododendrons and located the actual lane to Kingswear, my partner was muttering about “bloody technology” and I was trying not to laugh. The cottage itself appeared at the end of a steep track, a cheerful whitewashed place with a view straight over the water to Dartmouth, and the moment we stepped out the car a neighbour in a waxed jacket wandered over to introduce himself as Reg.

“New lot, are you?” he asked, peering at our overloaded boot. Before I could answer he’d already clocked the beach towels and declared we’d picked a good week. “Tide’ll be right for a paddle tomorrow, mind the current though—last visitors got swept halfway to Dittisham before they realised.” He chuckled, then offered to lend us a bucket if we fancied collecting mussels off the rocks below. I thanked him, slightly dazed, and he ambled off whistling.

Inside, the cottage felt instantly welcoming: low ceilings, a wood-burner already laid, and a note from the owner explaining where the nearest shop was. We were still unpacking when there was a knock—two women from the next cottage down, both in their sixties and armed with a bottle of elderflower cordial. “Welcome to the row,” said the taller one, whose name turned out to be Maureen. “We do a little quiz night on Tuesdays if you’re staying that long. Nothing serious, just village gossip disguised as questions.” Her friend, Pat, added that the pub at the top sometimes ran out of real ale by nine, so best to get there early. They stayed chatting on the doorstep for twenty minutes, giving us the low-down on which dog-walkers to avoid and which ones would happily lend leads if ours went missing.

Later, after a quick fish-and-chip supper from the kiosk by the ferry, we wandered along the little shingle beach. A man with a Jack Russell stopped to ask if we’d seen his missing bobble hat; apparently it had blown into the water the week before and he was still hopeful. We hadn’t, but promised to keep an eye out, which seemed to satisfy him. Back at the cottage the lights from Dartmouth twinkled across the estuary, and I found myself wondering how many other visitors had arrived with grand plans only to be gently absorbed into the daily rhythm of the place instead. It felt less like renting a house and more like borrowing a seat at the local table for a few days.