We’d been on the road for nearly five hours when the satnav decided to have a little joke at our expense. One minute we were crawling through yet another Devon lane barely wide enough for a bicycle, the next the voice announced we’d “arrived,” right beside a gate that opened onto nothing but a field of puzzled sheep. My other half muttered something unrepeatable while I tried to look as though I’d meant to take the scenic route all along. Five minutes and one reversed three-point turn later, we finally spotted the discreet sign for Vantage Point and bumped down the short track towards the sea.

The cottage sits just above the shoreline between Dartmouth and the little coves that dot the South Hams coast, and the first thing that hit us—literally—was the smell of salt and warm grass. We parked on the gravel, climbed out, and stood blinking in the low evening light. From the garden the view stretched across the bay, the water glinting like someone had scattered sequins. A few gulls wheeled overhead, clearly unimpressed by our arrival, but the air felt cleaner than anything London had offered in months.

Inside, the place was exactly what we’d hoped for after that marathon drive: a bright, open living space with big windows framing the water and a wood burner already laid, ready for later. The owners had left a note about the tide times and a spare key hidden in the usual “you’ll never guess” spot. We dumped our bags, kicked off shoes still dusty from the lanes, and wandered straight out onto the little terrace. Below us a narrow path wound down to the beach, where a couple of locals were throwing a ball for a very wet Labrador. The tide was on its way out, leaving long ribbons of seaweed that glistened in the last of the sun.

I’d spent the entire journey imagining the perfect first evening—maybe a gentle stroll, fish and chips eaten on the sand—but the mishap with the satnav had left us both a bit wrung out. Instead we raided the welcome hamper for tea and biscuits and sat on the low wall watching the light fade. Every so often a wave slapped the rocks with a soft, satisfying crunch. It struck me then how rarely we actually stop; usually we’re so busy “making the most” of a place that we forget to just sit in it. Here, with nothing but the gulls and the distant chug of a fishing boat, sitting felt like the most natural thing in the world.

Later, when the breeze picked up, we wandered back inside, lit the fire, and listened to the cottage settle around us. From the sofa you can still see a sliver of sea between the rooftops, a reminder that the beach is only a minute’s walk away whenever we’re ready. For now, though, the journey’s small comedy had done its job: it had slowed us down, made us laugh, and handed us an evening that already felt like holiday.