We’d barely been on the road an hour when the sat-nav decided to have a little joke at our expense. One minute we were trundling happily towards West Knighton, the next it was cheerfully rerouting us down a lane so narrow the brambles were practically waving hello through the windows. By the time we reached Sunny Croft I was convinced the cottage had moved house while we weren’t looking. Still, the moment we stepped inside, the mishap was instantly forgiven; the low beams, the wood-burner already laid, and that unmistakable seaside smell drifting in through the open door made everything feel instantly right.

After unpacking the car (and discovering I’d packed three left socks but no toothpaste) we wandered out with no particular plan, only a vague idea of finding the beach. Instead we followed a half-hidden footpath behind the garden hedge and promptly got gloriously lost. What started as a five-minute stroll turned into an hour of meandering through fields edged with cow parsley, eventually spilling out onto a tiny, almost secret cove that wasn’t on any of our maps. The only other footprints belonged to a rather surprised-looking heron, and we spent the next blissful stretch of afternoon skimming pebbles and watching the tide creep in around our shoes.

The beauty of getting turned around like that was how many other little treasures we stumbled upon purely by accident. A chalky track we’d never have noticed from the road led us to an old stone stile half-buried in nettles; beyond it lay a meadow dotted with tiny, brave wildflowers that seemed to be having their own quiet celebration. Further on, a wooden gate opened onto what looked like someone’s back garden until we realised it was actually a public right-of-way curving down to a freshwater stream trickling straight onto the shingle. We sat on a fallen log, ate slightly squashed sandwiches, and watched a robin hop along the water’s edge as though conducting an orchestra of ripples.

By the time we finally found our way back to Sunny Croft the light was turning that soft, honeyed colour that makes everything look kinder. I stood in the doorway, still sandy and slightly pink from the sun, and realised how rarely we actually let ourselves get lost on purpose. Usually I’m the one with the printed directions and the backup phone charger; today I’d managed to misplace both and somehow ended up exactly where I needed to be. The cottage felt like it had been waiting for us to arrive in our own roundabout way, windows glowing against the dusk, the faint sound of waves carrying up from the hidden cove we’d claimed as our own.