I’d barely pulled into the little car park behind Beach Bungalow when the sat-nav decided we needed one last loop round Burnham-on-Sea. “Turn around when possible,” it chirped, while my other half muttered that we’d already done that twice. Five minutes later we were parked, keys in hand, and the first thing that struck me was how the cottage sat right on the edge of the dunes, the sea just a sandy hop away. The front step was still warm from the afternoon sun, and inside, the low ceilings and scuffed wooden floors felt instantly welcoming, like someone’s well-loved beach bolthole rather than a polished holiday let.

We dumped our bags and wandered out to stretch our legs, intending to follow the obvious path along the sea wall. Instead we took a wrong turn at a half-hidden stile and ended up on a narrow track that wound behind the dunes. Brambles snagged at my jacket, and just as I was about to suggest we retrace our steps, the path opened onto a tiny, sheltered cove I’d never noticed on any map. The tide was out, leaving glassy pools that reflected the late sky, and a scattering of smooth pebbles made perfect skimming stones. We stayed longer than planned, shoes off, trousers rolled, laughing every time a wave crept higher than expected.

Further along, still slightly lost, we stumbled across a weather-beaten bench tucked between two hawthorn bushes. From there the view stretched across the mudflats toward Brean Down, yet we could have been miles from anywhere. A kestrel hovered overhead, completely unbothered by our presence, and for a moment I felt oddly grateful for the sat-nav’s earlier mischief; without it we might have stuck to the main path and missed this pocket of quiet.

Back at the bungalow the light was fading, and we sat on the little deck with mugs of tea, listening to the rhythmic hush of the waves. I caught myself thinking how easy it is, even on holiday, to follow the obvious route and miss the bits that stay with you. Tomorrow we might try to get properly lost again.