We’d barely pulled off the A35 when the satnav decided we were already at Pound Cottage, sending us down a single-track lane that narrowed with every bend. By the time we realised our mistake and tried to turn round, the boot was wedged against a bramble hedge and a tractor was waiting patiently behind us. After some undignified reversing and a fair bit of laughter, we finally found the right turning and coasted into Lyme Regis with the windows down and the smell of salt already in the air.

Pound Cottage sits just back from the seafront, tucked behind a low stone wall that separates it from the shingle. The moment we stepped inside, the children made a beeline for the little garden, kicking off shoes and claiming the bench as their own. I followed more slowly, pausing in the doorway to take in the low ceilings and the way the afternoon light slid across the wooden floor. It felt immediately like somewhere you could settle without any fuss.

We unpacked in that half-hearted holiday way—no one quite sure where anything should go—and then wandered the few minutes down to the beach. The tide was out, leaving wide stretches of damp sand perfect for collecting pebbles and shells. My youngest spent ages crouched over a rock pool, while my partner and I sat on a blanket with takeaway fish and chips from the kiosk on the front. Every so often a wave would creep closer, and we’d shuffle the blanket back an inch or two, pretending we’d planned it that way.

Back at the cottage, the evening settled gently. We opened the back door to let in the cooler air and ate strawberries straight from the punnet while the kids played cards at the kitchen table. There’s something about the simple rhythm of these places that slows you down without you noticing. I found myself standing at the sink, washing up mugs, and realising I hadn’t checked my phone in hours. That small realisation felt oddly luxurious.

Later, once the children were asleep upstairs, I stepped outside again. The lane was quiet, just the distant hush of the waves and the occasional creak of a gate. I thought about how easy it is, in ordinary life, to rush from one thing to the next without really arriving anywhere. Here, even the journey mishap had turned into part of the story we’d tell on the way home. Standing there in the half-dark, I felt properly arrived at last.