We set off from the car park at the top of the lane with more enthusiasm than sense, and promptly managed to lose the key somewhere between the boot and the garden gate. Ten minutes of rummaging through coat pockets and muttering under our breath turned up nothing, until my other half spotted it glinting in the grass like a tiny silver accusation. By the time we’d unlocked Cliffwalk Cottage the sun was already sliding down the sky, painting everything a soft, hopeful gold.

The cottage sits just far enough back from the cliff edge to feel safe but close enough that you can hear the sea shifting even with the windows shut. Inside it’s all pale walls and low ceilings, the sort of place that makes you instinctively kick your shoes off and speak a little quieter. We dumped our bags, opened the back door, and simply stood there for a moment, breathing in the salt air and the faint scent of warm grass.

The first proper decision we made was not to make any decisions at all. We carried two deckchairs down the short, steep path to the shingle and arranged ourselves with the serious intent of people who have nothing whatsoever to do. The tide was out, leaving wide, damp stretches of sand that caught the light like polished metal. Every so often a small wave would hiss up and retreat again, as if the sea itself was in no hurry either.

I’d brought a book I’d been meaning to finish for months and managed three whole pages before the warmth and the rhythmic sound of the water did their work. My partner fared no better; his paperback kept slipping from his fingers until he gave up and simply closed his eyes. We dozed, woke, dozed again, and somewhere in between I realised I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt properly still. The only movement came from gulls wheeling overhead and the occasional dog walker ambling past with the contented look of someone who’d also decided the day could wait.

Later we wandered a little way along the beach, collecting nothing in particular and stopping whenever a flat stone looked inviting enough to sit on. The cliffs rose behind us in soft bands of grey and cream, and every few minutes the sun would catch on a wave and flash like someone signalling from a boat. We didn’t talk much; there didn’t seem any need. Back at the cottage we left the door open while we made tea, the evening air drifting in along with the distant hush of the surf.

That first evening set the tone for the rest of the stay. Each morning we woke to the same gentle light, drank coffee on the small patio, and let the day unfold without a plan. Afternoons were spent on the beach with books that stayed mostly unread, or simply watching the clouds drift. Even the short walk to the village shop for bread and milk felt like an event rather than a chore, and we returned each time with the satisfied feeling of having done something important by doing almost nothing at all.

By the time we packed the car again the key was safely back in my pocket, but the real thing we carried away was the memory of those slow, sunlit hours. It turns out that getting deliberately lost in your own afternoon can be surprisingly good for the soul.