We’d only been on the road for an hour and a half when the satnav decided we needed a quick detour through every back lane in Devon. By the time we finally pulled up outside Lilleby, the boot was half-open, a bag of clinking wine bottles had rolled under the passenger seat, and I was convinced the cottage had moved since the photos were taken. It hadn’t, of course; it was just hiding behind a tidy hedge a short stroll from the sand, looking every bit the cosy beach bolthole we’d hoped for.

The first thing we did, naturally, was hunt for something to eat. A quick unpack turned into an impromptu fridge inspection, and before we knew it we were back in the car heading into Salcombe for supplies. The little town’s Saturday market was still in full swing when we arrived, so we joined the queue at the fish stall and came away with plump scallops and a paper bag of fat local sausages. Back at Lilleby, I decided this called for a proper “welcome supper.” Twenty minutes later the kitchen looked like it had hosted a small culinary crime scene: one scallop had made an ambitious leap onto the floor, and the sausages were charring on one side while remaining suspiciously cool on the other. We ate them anyway, perched on the little patio with plastic tumblers of wine, watching the last of the light slide off the water.

The next morning brought that gentle holiday rhythm where nobody’s quite sure what time it is. We wandered down to the beach for a salty walk, then rewarded ourselves with thick bacon sandwiches at a tiny café tucked behind the lifeboat station. By lunchtime the sun had properly shown up, so we strolled along the harbour to The Victoria Inn for crab sandwiches that arrived still glistening from the boat. Sitting outside with cold pints, we watched dinghies tack back and forth and felt, briefly, as though we’d accidentally become locals.

That evening we tried again with the scallops—this time with far less drama and a cautious splash of cider butter. Success tasted like melted butter and smugness. We washed the plates, poured the last of the wine, and sat with the doors open listening to the tide. Somewhere between the slightly burnt sausages and the second, more respectable attempt at scallops, I realised the holiday had already done its job: we’d stopped checking our phones every five minutes and started checking the fridge instead.