We set off for Dragon House on a Friday morning with the boot packed to the rafters and the satnav cheerfully insisting we’d arrive by lunch. Somewhere near Bridgwater the cheerful tone turned bossy, and in my eagerness to prove I knew better I took a shortcut that ended with us parked on a verge while a tractor reversed past us twice. By the time we reached Minehead the sun was already high and my pride was dented, but the moment we turned into the little lane behind the seafront everything softened. Dragon House sat tucked behind a low wall, its whitewashed walls catching the light and the name plaque almost hidden by a climbing rose.

The key was exactly where the owner said it would be, under a terracotta pot that looked far too heavy to lift one-handed, yet I managed it without dropping it on my toe. Inside, the cottage felt instantly welcoming: a low-ceilinged living room with a couple of well-worn sofas, a wood-burner that clearly hadn’t been used since spring, and French doors flung open to a tiny flagged patio. The faint smell of lavender from a bowl on the table mixed with the salt air drifting in from the beach path. We dumped the bags, kicked off our shoes, and that was pretty much the end of any grand plans.

The first afternoon set the tone for the whole weekend. We wandered the hundred yards or so down to the shingle, spread an old blanket on the warm stones, and simply sat. The tide was out, leaving wide stretches of damp sand perfect for slow, aimless strolls. I found myself collecting a ridiculous number of tiny shells without any intention of doing anything with them, while my partner dozed with a paperback balanced on his chest. Later we carried deckchairs onto the patio and read until the light started to fade, the only interruption being the occasional seagull eyeing our biscuits.

By Saturday the pattern felt gloriously inevitable. Mornings began with coffee on the patio, followed by a gentle debate about whether we needed to go anywhere at all. We never really did. Instead we drifted between the beach and the cottage, sometimes venturing as far as the little café on the promenade for an ice cream, sometimes not even that far. The garden at the back caught the afternoon sun beautifully, and I spent a happy hour or two just watching bees in the lavender while pretending to finish my book. Every so often I’d catch myself checking the time out of habit, then remembering there was nowhere else we needed to be.

That small wrong turn on the way down already felt like ancient history. In its place was the quiet realisation that doing very little, with the sea only a short walk away and the sun on your face, can be surprisingly restorative. By Sunday evening, packing the car again, I found myself hoping the satnav would lead us back here sooner rather than later.