We’d only just turned off the main road towards Beesands when the satnav decided we were better off in a hedge. One minute I was following its calm instructions, the next the front wheel was sinking into soft Devon soil and a helpful voice kept repeating “recalculating” as if the hedge itself needed directions. By the time we’d freed the car with the aid of a cheerful farmer in a mud-splattered Land Rover, we were both laughing too hard to mind the state of our shoes.

That same farmer, it turned out, lived just up the lane from Huccombe Farmhouse. He introduced himself as Trevor while brushing soil from his sleeves, and before we knew it we were being ushered into the stone porch of the cottage with promises of “a quick cuppa to settle your nerves.” Inside, the low beams and the faint smell of woodsmoke made the place feel instantly like someone’s well-loved home rather than a holiday let. Trevor’s wife, Maureen, appeared with a teapot and a plate of still-warm scones, insisting we sit by the Rayburn while she quizzed us on where we’d come from and whether we’d brought enough layers for the sea breeze.

Word travels fast in Beesands. Within half an hour the kitchen seemed to have become an unofficial drop-in centre. A neighbour called Linda popped by with a basket of early rhubarb, heard about our hedge incident, and promptly offered to lend us her husband’s shovel “just in case you fancy exploring another verge.” An older chap everyone called Uncle Pete wandered in for a chat about the tides, leaning on the doorframe and delivering a running commentary on every dog that trotted past the window. Each newcomer had a story: Maureen recalled the great storm of ’90 when the sea came right up to the garden wall, while Trevor swore the local seagulls had learned to open car doors for chips.

By the time we’d carried our bags upstairs, the sun was already sliding towards the water and the windows of the farmhouse glowed amber against the fields. Standing at the bedroom sill, I caught myself smiling at how quickly strangers had turned into something like temporary family. It struck me, not for the first time, that the best part of arriving somewhere new isn’t the cottage itself but the people who wander in before you’ve even unpacked the kettle.