We’d barely been on the road an hour when the sat-nav decided our boot was the perfect place for an impromptu picnic. Somewhere near Taunton the lid of the cool-box popped open on a bend and three sausage rolls made a break for freedom, landing in a perfect line across the back seat. By the time we pulled up outside Coulscott House, the dog had claimed the last one and we were all slightly sticky.

Still, nothing could spoil that first glimpse of the place. The cottage sits just above Combe Martin’s sweep of sand, its garden gate opening onto a short lane that drops straight onto the beach. We tumbled out, shook off the crumbs and simply stood for a moment, listening to the tide and the gulls. The air smelled of salt and warm grass, and the boys were already kicking off their trainers before we’d even found the key safe.

Inside, everything felt ready for us. The kitchen table was big enough for the four of us plus the dog underneath, and someone had left a jar of local fudge on the side with a note saying “Welcome – help yourselves.” We didn’t need telling twice. While the kettle boiled, we wandered through the sitting room with its low beams and squishy sofas, then out onto the little patio where two deckchairs faced the sea. It was the sort of view that makes you forget about unpacking.

Later we wandered down to the shore with our pasties from the bakery in the village. The tide was out, leaving rock pools the size of paddling pools, and the children spent a happy hour chasing tiny crabs while we sat on a blanket and watched the light change over the cliffs. Every so often one of us would glance back up at the cottage, its windows catching the sun, and feel quietly glad we’d chosen somewhere so close to the water.

By the time we trudged back up the lane, shoes full of sand, it struck me how little we’d actually done and how content that made us feel. No grand plans, no rushing, just the simple rhythm of arriving, settling, and letting the sea set the pace. As the evening cooled, we lit the wood-burner, shared the last of the fudge, and listened to the waves through the open window. It felt like the start of a proper, unhurried family break—the kind you remember long after the crumbs have been hoovered from the car.