I’ll never forget the drive down to Lyme Regis – we’d packed the car to bursting with kids’ beach toys, cool bags stuffed with snacks, and enough sun cream to last a nuclear winter. About halfway through Devon, disaster struck: a rogue seagull dive-bombed our windscreen, leaving a Jackson Pollock-esque splatter that had my husband squinting like a pirate through the mess. We pulled over for an emergency wipe-down at a services, laughing our heads off as the kids declared it the best road trip story ever. By the time we trundled into Dorset, hearts were light and anticipation was buzzing – visions of fossil hunting and fish and chips dancing in our heads.

Pulling up to our spot on historic Sherborne Lane – a Saxon path turned charming pedestrian walkway lined with cosy homes old and new – we were gobsmacked. This beautifully renovated split-level apartment on the ground floor was a proper gem, once a beloved local pub called The Crown and Anchor, which gave it that cheeky whisper of history without any fuss. Stepping inside felt like sinking into a hug: the open-plan living space flooded with light from those clever ash-framed windows, and the kitchen kitted out with top-notch gear – dishwasher, oven, induction hob, and a Nespresso machine that had me grinning like a kid at Christmas. Luxe but lived-in, perfect for our ragtag family crew.

First morning, we cracked open espressos and wandered five minutes down to the beach, the kids whooping as they splashed in the shallows by the Jurassic Coast. Lyme Regis is fossil central, isn’t it? We joined a guided hunt along Monmouth Beach, unearthing tiny ammonites that had the little ones convinced they were proper palaeontologists. Lunch was the simplest joy: fresh crab sandwiches from a beach hut, eaten on a rug with sand in our hair and grins plastered on. Back at the flat, chaos reigned – wet towels everywhere, sand tracked through the hall, and a full-on pillow fight in the lounge that nearly toppled the coffee table. I caught myself in the mirror mid-laugh, thinking, “Blimey, when did family holidays turn into this brilliant, exhausting whirlwind?” It’s those unguarded moments that stick, isn’t it? A gentle nudge that we’re making memories amid the madness.

Afternoons blurred into lazy rambles along the Undercliff, that wild, tangled path with sea views that make your soul sigh. We picnicked in the town’s hidden gardens, the kids charging about while we parents nursed ice creams from the parlour on Broad Street. Evenings were pure cottage bliss: firing up a simple supper in that slick kitchen (pasta with local seafood, nothing fancy), then curling up with board games as rain pattered the windows – Dorset weather being its typical fickle self. One night, we snuck out for a pint at a nearby boozer, the sea breeze carrying tales of smugglers past.

It was the kind of break where time slowed, all about those unhurried pleasures – salty air, sandy chaos, and the warmth of being together. Driving home, windscreen miraculously clear, I was already plotting our return. Dorset’s got its hooks in us now.