We set off from Bristol just after lunch, the boot stuffed with the usual holiday chaos of wellies, board games, and a suspicious number of snacks. By the time we reached the winding lanes near Ilfracombe, the satnav had given up and started making things up, and we were both a bit tetchy from sitting too long. The final turn took us down a narrow track lined with high hedges, and that’s when the small but perfectly avoidable mishap happened: I misjudged the width and clipped the wing mirror on a wooden gatepost with a gentle but expensive-sounding crunch. We both stared at it for a second, then laughed the slightly hysterical laugh of people who’ve been driving too long.

Newt Cottage sat just beyond the gate, low and whitewashed with a slate roof that looked like it had been there forever. The garden was a bit wild in the nicest way—roses tumbling over the fence, a wooden bench catching the last of the afternoon sun. We parked (more carefully this time) and stepped out into that particular Devon quiet, broken only by seagulls and the distant hush of waves. The air smelled of salt and warm grass, and suddenly the mirror didn’t seem to matter quite so much.

Inside, everything felt exactly right after a long drive. The kitchen was small but welcoming, with a big pine table and a kettle that boiled in record time. We made tea and carried the mugs straight through to the living room, where two squashy sofas faced a wood burner that already looked well-used. Upstairs, the bedroom windows opened onto a view of rooftops sloping down toward the sea, and I stood there for a minute just breathing it in. The cottage had that lived-in feeling that makes you relax without trying.

We wandered out again almost immediately, following a little path that led toward the beach. It was only a short walk—barely ten minutes—and we could already hear the waves properly. The sand curved in a gentle arc, dotted with a few families packing up for the day and a dog chasing its own shadow. We didn’t go far, just far enough to feel the breeze properly and watch the light start to soften over the water. My partner pointed out a crab shell caught in some seaweed, and we both smiled at how something so small could feel like a proper discovery.

Back at the cottage, we sat on the bench with the last of the tea, watching midges dance in the golden light. The mirror incident already felt like part of the story rather than a problem. I found myself thinking how easy it is to arrive somewhere new and immediately start worrying about perfection—smooth journeys, unscratched cars, everything going to plan. But sitting there, slightly sticky from the drive and properly tired, I realised the best bits were already the unplanned ones: the wrong turn that showed us a field of sheep, the clumsy parking, even the wing mirror. Newt Cottage didn’t need us to be polished; it just needed us to slow down and notice the sea.