We’d barely made it off the M5 when the satnav decided to send us down a lane so narrow the wing mirrors were practically shaking hands with the hedgerows. I was still laughing at my own terrible reversing when the passenger door swung open of its own accord at the bottom of the hill and deposited my sunglasses into a puddle. By the time we’d fished them out, wiped them on my jeans and found No.5 The Vista tucked behind a low stone wall, I felt as though the cottage had already seen us at our most ridiculous.

The owners, a cheerful pair called Maureen and Derek who live just across the lane, were waiting with the keys and a Tupperware of still-warm scones. “You’ll be wanting the beach path,” Maureen said, pointing with a teaspoon. “Mind the turn by the old phone box—folk keep missing it and ending up halfway to Willingcott before they realise.” Derek chuckled and added that the tide times were pinned to the fridge “because nobody ever believes the app.” Within five minutes we’d learnt more about the local tides than any guidebook could manage.

Later that afternoon, wandering down to the sand with the scones in a paper bag, we bumped into a woman called Linda who was walking her very determined Jack Russell. She told us the best rock-pooling spots were “where the kids from the caravan site haven’t been yet,” then promptly offered us a spare bucket because ours was clearly the wrong shape. Her running commentary on every dog that passed—“That’s Barry’s spaniel, never pays attention”—made the short stretch of beach feel like a village hall.

Back at the cottage that evening, the light was fading over the low hills when our next visitor arrived: a teenage lad on a bike delivering a forgotten pint of milk from the corner shop. He introduced himself as Sam and explained his mum ran the place; apparently she’d seen us arrive with the open door and guessed we might need supplies. We stood chatting on the doorstep about the difference between Woolacombe pasties and the ones they sell in Ilfracombe, until the Jack Russell from earlier came trotting up the path, tail wagging, as if to check we’d settled in.

Sitting on the little bench outside No.5 with a cup of tea, watching the last of the surfers pack up, I found myself wondering how many holidays it takes before you stop feeling like a visitor and start feeling like someone who knows which way the phone-box path goes. The mishaps and the conversations had already done half the work.