I’d barely got the car out of the roundabout at Corfe when the satnav decided to send us down a lane that was more puddle than road, and we arrived at Signature Lodge 3 with the back bumper wearing half of Dorset. The key safe was exactly where the owner had promised, tucked behind a pot of defiant rosemary, and the moment the door clicked open the smell of woodsmoke and sea salt hit us like a welcome home.

We were still wiping mud off our shoes when the neighbour from the next lodge wandered over with a trug of early raspberries and the sort of grin that suggested he’d already heard about our detour. “You took the scenic route then,” he chuckled, and before I could explain he was introducing himself as Reg, retired postie, and insisting we borrow his wheelbarrow for the logs. His wife Maureen appeared with a flask of tea “strong enough to stand a spoon in,” and within minutes we were leaning on their fence hearing about the time the local lifeboat crew mistook a stranded inflatable unicorn for a rescue.

Later, when we wandered the short path to the beach, we met Linda from the surf-hire hut who swore the best pasties this side of Swanage were the ones her brother baked on Tuesdays. She pointed us toward the little honesty-box stall at the end of the car park and told us, deadpan, that if we left the money under the gnome rather than in the tin the seagulls would only steal it for “their pension fund.” We bought two, still warm, and ate them sitting on the low wall while a spaniel called Barry tried to negotiate a crust.

Back at the lodge the wi-fi was patchy, which turned out to be a blessing. Reg reappeared with a handful of kindling and a story about the time he’d helped drag a dinghy up the slipway in his slippers, and Maureen offered to show us where the blackberries were already turning. I found myself laughing more than I had in months, not because anything was hilarious, but because these small exchanges felt like the actual point of being here.

By the time the sun slid behind Ballard Down I realised I’d spent the whole afternoon collecting other people’s anecdotes instead of unpacking. The lodge itself was cosy and quiet, the kettle worked, and the view from the little deck was exactly as promised, but it was Reg’s wheelbarrow still parked by our door and Linda’s pasty wrapper in the bin that made the place feel properly arrived in.