We set off from Exeter with the sort of optimism that only comes from having packed far too many snacks, and everything was going swimmingly until we took the wrong turning just past Braunton and ended up on a single-track lane that narrowed with every hedge we brushed. By the time we reached the cottage in Nairn, the satnav had given up on us completely and was simply repeating “recalculating” in a tone of mild despair. Still, the moment we stepped out of the car and caught that first whiff of salt on the breeze, the detour felt almost worth it.

The cottage sits just a short stroll from the dunes, tucked behind a low stone wall that somehow manages to look both tidy and a bit windswept at the same time. Our two boys tumbled straight out and made a beeline for the little wooden gate, already arguing over who would carry the bucket and spade we’d bought on the way. I lingered by the boot, wrestling with a cool-bag that had decided to leak raspberry squash down my jeans, and caught my wife’s eye. She was smiling in that way that said she’d already forgiven the journey and was busy imagining fish and chips on the sofa later.

Inside, the place felt instantly like ours for the week. A well-worn sofa faced the little wood-burner, and the kitchen table still had room for a proper board-game sprawl once the rain arrived, which it inevitably would. We unpacked in that half-hearted holiday fashion—no one quite ready to commit to putting things in drawers—then wandered down the lane with sandy trainers and hopeful expressions. The beach path opened out onto a wide stretch of sand that the tide had just begun to turn, leaving perfect stretches for skimmed stones and the sort of footprints you only make once a year.

Back at the cottage we grilled sausages in the little back garden while the boys hunted for shells along the wall. I poured two glasses of something cold and sat on the step, listening to the gulls and the distant hush of waves. It struck me, watching everyone argue happily over ketchup, how rarely we manage to slow down like this. The mishap on the lane already felt like part of the story rather than a nuisance, and I realised that the best bits of these breaks rarely involve grand plans—just the simple rhythm of sand in your shoes, sausages on the barbecue, and the quiet certainty that nobody needs to be anywhere else for a while.