We’d only just turned off the A35 when the satnav decided Bridport wasn’t quite dramatic enough and sent us down a lane so narrow the wing mirrors kissed the brambles. By the time we reached 8 Bed Cottage the rain that had been threatening all morning had caught us properly, so we tumbled out with damp jackets and slightly damp spirits. The cottage sat just far enough back from West Bay beach that you could smell salt on the breeze, and the moment the front door swung open the smell of warm wood and yesterday’s toast made the journey instantly worthwhile.

Inside it felt instantly ours: a big kitchen table already laid with mismatched mugs, a slightly saggy sofa facing the window, and a rack by the door already half-full of walking boots that clearly belonged to previous guests. We dumped our bags, made tea, and watched the weather do what British weather does best—change its mind. The rain eased to a silvery mist, the sun broke through, and suddenly the cliffs beyond the garden looked far too inviting to ignore.

We set off along the coastal path towards Eype Mouth, boots still damp from the car but spirits decidedly improved. The path climbed gently at first, then steeper, the sort of gradient that makes you pretend you’re stopping to admire the view rather than catch your breath. Gulls wheeled overhead, and every few minutes the clouds rearranged themselves into something altogether more cheerful. By the time we reached the little wooden footbridge over the stream the sun was properly out and the sea had turned that improbable Dorset blue that never quite photographs right.

We carried on a little further, following the path as it hugged the edge of the fields, stopping every so often to watch a fishing boat chug towards West Bay harbour. The air smelled of warm grass and seaweed, and for once nobody was checking their phone. We’d planned to go further—maybe all the way round to Burton Bradstock—but the sky had that undecided look again, so we turned back, content with the stretch we’d done and the promise of another go tomorrow if the weather behaved.

Back at the cottage the kettle went on again and we sat on the low wall outside with our tea, watching the tide come in. My trainers were still sandy from the path and my legs felt pleasantly tired in that way that only comes from fresh air and a bit of gentle uphill. It struck me, not for the first time, how little you actually need when the sea is this close and the path starts right outside the door. The mishap on the lane already felt like part of the story rather than a nuisance, and the changeable sky had done what it always does—given us an excuse to slow down and simply enjoy being here.