We’d barely made it off the M5 when the satnav decided to send us on a scenic detour through every single hedge-lined lane in South Devon. By the time we finally pulled up outside Court Lodge, I was convinced the cottage had moved since the photos were taken. The key safe refused to open on the first three attempts, which was entirely my fault for misreading the code in the bright afternoon light, and my partner stood there laughing while I muttered at a plastic box like it had personally offended me. Still, once the door swung open and that first waft of sun-warmed wood greeted us, every wrong turn felt worth it.

Court Lodge sits just a short stroll from the beach, and the moment we stepped into the garden the sea was right there, glinting between the trees. We didn’t bother unpacking properly; we simply dropped our bags, grabbed the nearest books, and wandered down the lane with towels slung over our shoulders. The beach itself was the sort of place that makes you slow down without even noticing. Warm sand, the gentle hush of small waves, and hardly anyone about mid-week. We found a spot near the rocks, spread our things out, and promptly did nothing of consequence for the rest of the afternoon.

That set the tone for the whole stay. Mornings began with coffee on the patio, the sun already strong enough to make jumpers unnecessary. We’d wander down to the shore again, sometimes with a picnic, sometimes just a single book each, and spend hours watching the tide creep in and out. I kept meaning to go for a proper walk along the coastal path, yet every time the thought surfaced the sun felt too lovely and the paperback too tempting. Instead we read, dozed, and occasionally paddled when the water looked especially inviting.

One afternoon I caught myself checking my phone out of habit, only to realise I’d already forgotten what I’d been looking for. The signal was patchy anyway, which felt like the universe gently agreeing with our plan to switch off. Back at the cottage we cooked simple meals with whatever we’d picked up in Dartmouth and ate outside until the light faded. Evenings were soft and unhurried; a glass of wine, the sound of the waves carrying up the lane, and the sort of easy conversation that only happens when neither of you feels the need to check the time.

By the third day I’d stopped feeling guilty about how little we’d “done.” The joy was in the nothing: the sun on our faces, the pages turning slowly, the occasional dip in the sea followed by a long lie on warm towels. Court Lodge gave us exactly the space to let those small pleasures stretch out, and I left wondering why we don’t make more room for days like these back home.