I’ll never forget the drive down to Weymouth – what was meant to be a straightforward jaunt from Bristol turned into a proper comedy of errors. We’d set off full of beans, playlist blaring sea shanties for the vibe, but then the sat-nav decided to have a midlife crisis just past Dorchester. It rerouted us through some narrow country lanes that felt like they hadn’t seen daylight since the war, and wouldn’t you know it, we got stuck behind a tractor doing about 5 miles an hour. By the time we hit the outskirts of town, the kids were bickering, my other half was eyeing the snack bag like it was the last supper, and I was sweating through my best holiday shirt. “This better be worth it,” I muttered, as we finally crawled into the Esplanade car park, hearts pounding with that mix of exhaustion and giddy anticipation.

But oh, pulling up to this stunning Georgian, Grade II listed nine-bedroom holiday dwelling? Instant jaw-drop. There it was, right on the front, gazing out over Weymouth’s golden beach like it owned the place – which, in a way, it probably does. The anticipation I’d built up all week melted into pure wow-factor as we tumbled out of the car, bags flying everywhere. First impressions? Bloody brilliant – sorry, I mean, absolutely cracking. The front door swung open to this grand hallway that screamed old-school elegance, with those high ceilings making you feel like you’d stumbled into a period drama. We were a family of six plus nan, and even with our chaotic entrance – one kid’s flip-flop flying off into a flowerbed, me nearly toppling the welcome hamper in my haste – it swallowed us up like we belonged.

We dumped the bags and made a beeline for the sea views from the massive windows. Weymouth Bay stretched out, all shimmering under the sun, with Nothe Fort peeking in the distance and the beach buzzing with families building sandcastles. Laughter bubbled up as we cracked open the fizz from the fridge – proper chilled prosecco, bless the hosts. The place had this lived-in luxury feel, spacious enough for us to spread out without tripping over each other, yet cosy in the lounges where we flopped for a quick recovery brew.

That first evening, we wandered the two minutes to the beach for fish and chips from one of those beach huts – salty, vinegar-drenched perfection wrapped in paper, eaten on the pebbles as the sun dipped. The kids paddled in the shallows, nan dozed in a beach chair we’d nicked from the garden, and I had one of those quiet moments watching them. Here I was, knackered from the road rage detour, realising how these little mishaps make the good bits shine brighter. No five-star hotel could match this – a proper home-from-home with the sea on the doorstep. We spent the next days beachcombing at Greenhill, popping to the harbour for crab claws at the quayside stalls, and lazy afternoons in the garden soaking up the Jurassic Coast vibes. Weymouth worked its magic, turning arrival pandemonium into holiday heaven. Can’t wait to go back – sat-nav permitting!