We’d barely pulled up outside Daphne when the satnav decided we were still three miles away, cheerfully announcing we’d “reached our destination” in the middle of someone’s front garden. I reversed out with a sheepish wave to the woman pruning her roses, who simply raised an eyebrow and carried on snipping. The cottage itself looked just as the photos promised: a whitewashed fisherman’s place tucked behind the harbour wall, with a blue door that needed a firm shoulder before it would budge.

Inside, the kettle was already on thanks to the owner popping round earlier, and two mugs sat waiting with a note that read, “Milk’s in the fridge, help yourselves.” We hadn’t even unpacked before there was a gentle knock. It was our next-door neighbour, Stan, a retired lifeboatman with a beard like tangled fishing line, who’d come to check we knew the tide times. “First-timers always get caught out,” he chuckled, then stayed for twenty minutes telling us about the Christmas when the entire harbour froze solid and they had to slide the lifeboat across the ice on dustbin lids.

Wandering down to the slipway later for fish and chips, we met Maureen behind the counter at the harbour café. She remembered our surname from the booking form and asked if we were the same lot who’d stayed in “that wonky pink cottage up the hill” last year. When I admitted we weren’t, she gave us an extra sachet of tartare sauce anyway, declaring, “You look like you could do with cheering up after that drive.” Over the vinegar steam we heard three different versions of the same story about a tractor that once ended up in the harbour during a New Year’s dare.

Back at Daphne, the evening light turned the whitewashed walls faintly pink, and we sat on the bench outside with our chips. Stan reappeared with a folding chair and a thermos of tea “strong enough to stand a spoon in,” insisting we try a slice of his wife’s saffron cake. He told us about the summer the village collectively decided to paint every door the same shade of blue, only for the council to object on “heritage grounds,” so now half the doors are defiant turquoise. Maureen wandered past on her way home and joined in, adding that the paint shop still sells out of that exact colour every spring.

As darkness settled and the harbour lights flickered on, I found myself thinking how quickly strangers become familiar in a place this small. We’d arrived intending to keep ourselves to ourselves, yet here we were swapping stories with people we’d known for less than a day. The satnav mishap already felt like part of the welcome, and I realised the best part of any holiday might just be the unplanned conversations that start before you’ve even unpacked your suitcase.