We set off from home with the usual optimistic playlist and a boot full of wellies we probably wouldn’t need, only to discover half an hour later that I’d left the cottage postcode on the kitchen table. After a slightly tense detour via a petrol-station Wi-Fi signal, we finally rolled into Bridport just as the light was starting to soften. The little lane that led down to the three-bed cottage felt narrower than it looked on the map, and I managed to clip the wing mirror on an obliging hedge before we even reached the gate.

Once we’d parked and the children had stopped giggling, the first proper sight of the place made the small drama worth it. Pale stone walls, a slate roof, and a wooden bench already set out by the front door gave the cottage that quietly welcoming look you hope for but don’t always get. Inside, everything felt ready for bare feet and sandy jumpers: the kitchen table was big enough for board games, the sofas looked properly squashy, and someone had left a jar of local honey on the side with a note saying, “Help yourselves.”

We didn’t unpack straight away. Instead we wandered the short path that runs behind the garden hedge and found ourselves on the shingle in under ten minutes, shoes already in hand. The tide was on its way out, leaving wide stretches of damp sand perfect for finding tiny shells and the odd bit of driftwood. The children raced ahead while my partner and I strolled behind, breathing in that clean, salty air that always seems to reset everything. Back at the cottage the kettle was soon on, and we sat on the bench with mugs of tea watching the sky turn peach above the rooftops.

Later, once the youngest had claimed the top bunk and the middle one had negotiated the bedroom with the better view, we cooked a simple pasta on the slightly temperamental hob and ate it at the kitchen table with the door propped open. No telly, just the low murmur of waves and the occasional laugh from next door’s garden. It struck me, halfway through clearing plates, how rarely we manage this kind of unhurried evening at home.

By the time we turned in, the mishap with the postcode already felt like part of the story rather than a hiccup, and I found myself hoping the rest of the week would unfold in much the same gentle, slightly sideways way.