I’ll never forget the drive down to Weymouth – we’d packed the car to the gills with beach gear, snacks, and enough board games to keep the kids entertained for a month. Halfway there, just past Dorchester, the heavens opened and we hit a proper downpour. The satnav decided to have a funny turn, rerouting us through some winding lanes that felt like they were leading to Narnia rather than the coast. By the time we pulled up, we were all a bit frazzled, the kids squabbling in the back over who’d get the window seat first. But honestly, that little mishap just made the arrival all the sweeter.

Climbing those stairs to our third-floor apartment – accessible via stairs, mind – we were buzzing with that holiday anticipation, wondering what we’d find. It turned out to be a proper gem: a comfortable, bright holiday home perfect for us as a small family. Cosy enough for couples too, with big windows letting in heaps of light and sea glimpses that had us grinning from ear to ear. First impressions? Spot on. We dumped the bags, cracked open the windows to that salty breeze, and felt the tension melt away.

Weymouth’s got that effortless charm for a relaxed family break. We wandered straight down to the beach that first afternoon, the kids paddling in the shallows while me and the wife sipped tea from a thermos, toes in the sand. No grand plans, just simple pleasures – building wonky sandcastles that inevitably collapsed in fits of giggles, and chasing seagulls that nicked our crisps. Evenings were cottage life chaos at its best: cooking up fish and chips from the local shop (none of that fancy stuff), spilling ketchup everywhere, and playing Uno till bedtime, with the loser doing the washing up.

One morning, we hired bikes and pootled along the harbour, stopping for ice creams at Bennet’s Pool – proper 99s with raspberry sauce, the kind that drip down your chin before you’ve taken two licks. The kids loved spotting the seals bobbing about in the bay, and we even squeezed in a gentle stroll to Nothe Fort, clambering over the old walls and pretending to defend against pirates. Light humour came courtesy of me getting stuck in a deckchair on the balcony – wedged like a beached whale, much to everyone’s amusement. “Dad’s the real fort now!” they chorused.

There was a quiet moment of self-reflection one evening, sat on the balcony as the sun dipped over Portland. With the kids finally knackered out, I thought about how these daft, messy holidays are what stick – not the Instagram-perfect ones, but the ones with sand in the bedsheets and laughter echoing off the walls. Weymouth delivered that in spades: unhurried days, family squabbles turning into hugs, and that cosy apartment as our sunny hub. We left with full hearts (and sandy socks), already plotting the next trip back. If you’re after a chilled-out family escape, this is the spot.