We set off from Bristol in good time, the boot packed to the gills with everything we thought we might need for a week by the sea. The M5 was its usual self, steady but never quite quick enough, and by the time we turned off towards Minehead the light was already starting to fade. I’d been looking forward to that first glimpse of the cottage, imagining a cosy welcome and the sound of waves just beyond the garden wall. What I hadn’t imagined was the satnav deciding, at the final roundabout, that we should take the scenic route through a housing estate that clearly wasn’t meant for visitors with roof boxes.

After a few wrong turns and one slightly embarrassing three-point turn in front of someone’s wheelie bins, we finally pulled up outside the little terrace. The key was exactly where the owner had promised, tucked under the flowerpot by the blue door. Inside, the cottage felt instantly welcoming—low ceilings, a wood burner already laid, and that faint smell of sea air mixed with fresh linen. We dropped the bags in the hallway and wandered through, discovering a bright kitchen with just enough room for two people to cook without elbowing each other, and a sitting room whose sofa seemed to have been chosen for maximum slouching potential.

Upstairs, the bedrooms were small but thoughtfully arranged, each with views that promised morning light rather than dramatic sunsets. I stood at the top window for a moment, watching the last of the day slip away over the rooftops, and felt that familiar mix of relief and mild embarrassment at how much I’d stressed about the journey. The mishap with the satnav had been nothing, really—just one of those tiny holiday hiccups that make the arrival feel earned.

Stepping out the back door, we found a neat little patio with a couple of chairs and a table already set for morning coffee. Beyond the low wall the beach path began, the tide out and the sand still damp from the afternoon’s rain. We didn’t go down straight away; instead we stood there listening to the gulls and the distant rush of the waves, letting the week stretch out in front of us. It was only the first evening, but already the cottage felt less like a booking and more like somewhere we could happily settle into.

Later, unpacking the essentials—tea bags, a loaf from the bakery we’d spotted on the way in, and the bottle of wine that had survived the roof-box adventure—I caught myself smiling at how quickly the stress of the drive had faded. The cottage wasn’t grand or flashy, but it had that quiet knack of making you feel at home the moment you walked through the door. As the kettle clicked off and the first mugs were poured, I realised the real holiday had already begun, right there in the kitchen, with sand on our shoes and the sound of the sea just beyond the garden wall.