We’d only just left the A39 when the satnav decided we were taking a shortcut through a hedge. By the time we’d reversed out of someone’s driveway and stopped laughing, we were running late and slightly sticky from a melted packet of fruit pastilles. Still, the first glimpse of Porth Cove made up for it – a low, whitewashed cottage tucked just behind the dunes, with a little wooden gate that squeaked like it was pleased to see us.

The owner had left the key under a pot of lavender, and as soon as we stepped inside the smell of clean linen and sea air hit us. The living room was small but cosy, with a wood-burner already laid and a couple of well-thumbed board games stacked on the shelf. Upstairs, the bedroom windows looked straight over the low wall to the beach path; you could hear the waves even with the sash pulled down. We dumped our bags, kicked off our shoes, and wandered straight out again, sand already finding its way between our toes before we’d gone ten paces.

Padstow harbour is only a short stroll along the coastal footpath, and we ambled that way for fish and chips, eating them on a bench while seagulls performed low-level theft operations nearby. Back at the cottage the children claimed the little patio for a game of Uno that somehow lasted until the light faded. I sat with a cup of tea watching them argue cheerfully over who was winning, and it struck me how rarely we manage to do nothing quite so successfully at home.

By the time we turned in, the tide had come up and the sound of it was oddly soothing through the open window. I lay there thinking that the satnav mishap had been the perfect start after all – nothing grand, just a slightly chaotic arrival that made the quiet of the cottage feel like exactly what we’d needed.