We set off from Taunton on a Friday morning with the boot crammed full of beach towels, paperbacks, and far too many snacks, convinced the satnav would deliver us straight to The Retreat without drama. Naturally, it didn’t. Somewhere near Watchet I managed to take the wrong turning and ended up on a single-track lane so narrow the wing mirrors brushed the hedgerows. A tractor appeared, the driver gave us the sort of patient nod only Somerset folk can manage, and we reversed into someone’s driveway while the dog in the back seat barked encouragement. By the time we finally pulled up outside the little white cottage, we were both laughing and slightly pink from the sun already warming the roof.

The moment the key turned in the lock, the tension of the week simply dissolved. Sunlight poured through the open kitchen door straight onto a scrubbed wooden table, and beyond it the garden sloped gently toward the sea. We left the cases where they landed and wandered straight out again, shoes kicked off on the grass. The beach path was only a few minutes’ walk, and the tide was out far enough to leave a wide strip of damp sand perfect for barefoot strolling. We didn’t plan anything; we just followed the curve of the shore until our feet got tired, then turned back.

That first afternoon set the pattern for the whole stay. We carried deckchairs down to the garden, poured cold drinks, and opened whatever book happened to be nearest. Every so often one of us would glance up at the water, decide the view hadn’t changed enough to warrant moving, and sink back into the pages. Lunch was whatever we could assemble without much effort—crusty bread, local cheese, tomatoes still warm from the market in Watchet—and we ate it slowly, listening to gulls and the occasional creak of a boat in the little harbour.

Even the smallest tasks felt leisurely. Collecting driftwood for the evening fire took an hour because we kept stopping to examine shells or watch a cormorant dive. When the sun finally dipped, we lit the wood-burner more for the crackle than the heat and ate supper on our laps, doors wide open to the cooling air. Later, lying in bed with the window cracked, I caught myself wondering why it always takes a wrong turn and a cottage key to remind me that doing almost nothing is sometimes the most restorative thing of all.