We’d barely made it off the A354 when the satnav decided we were already at the cottage and cheerfully announced we’d arrived in someone’s driveway. Cue a five-point turn in a lane that was definitely not wide enough for our car, followed by a neighbour peering through her net curtains as if we were auditioning for a village sitcom. By the time we found the right turning and pulled up outside the little 2 Bed Cottage in Weymouth, the only thing I wanted was a cup of tea and the promise that no one else would be watching us park.

The cottage sat just far enough back from the beach path that you could smell salt on the breeze without getting sand in your boots straight away. Inside, the kitchen was small but perfectly formed, with a hob that looked like it had seen a few optimistic holiday cooks before us. We dumped the bags, flicked the kettle on, and immediately started debating what to eat first. The local market was still open, so we wandered down with empty tote bags and came back with fresh crab, a crusty loaf, and some of those little Dorset apples that always taste better when you’ve carried them home yourself.

That first evening we tried to recreate a proper pub supper without leaving the cottage. I’d picked up some local sausages and a jar of chutney at the market, and we managed to burn only one side of the baps while the onions went from “gently softened” to “dramatic charcoal”. We ate them anyway, sitting at the little table with the window cracked open so the sea air could cut through the smoke alarm’s occasional complaints. The whole thing felt wonderfully unhurried, the sort of meal you only really enjoy when you’re not trying to impress anyone.

The next morning we headed to a pub just along the front for a proper full English. Sitting by the window with a view of the boats, we watched the day-trippers arrive while our plates kept coming: extra mushrooms for him, black pudding “just to try” for me. By the time we’d finished, the plan for lunch had already formed—another walk to the market for crab sandwiches to take back to the cottage. We ate them on the tiny patio, legs tucked under the bench, brushing crumbs onto the gravel while gulls wheeled overhead.

By the third meal we’d stopped pretending we were going to cook anything fancy. Instead we bought pasties from the bakery near the harbour and ate them straight from the paper bag on the way back, still warm and full of peppery gravy. It struck me, halfway through mine, how much of this holiday was already being measured in mouthfuls: the crab on toast, the slightly overdone sausages, the pasty that left flakes on my jacket. None of it was Instagram-perfect, but that was precisely the point. We’d come for the beach and the quiet, yet here we were, planning the next meal before the last one had even settled.