We set off from the station with the tide already high and the air smelling of salt and vinegar, only to discover that my phone’s sat-nav had decided “2 Bed Cottage” was somewhere near the old ferry terminal. After a brisk fifteen-minute detour past a row of shuttered arcades, we finally turned into the narrow lane and spotted the whitewashed walls and blue door tucked behind a low wall.

The first person we met was Mrs Wilkins, who was wrestling a stubborn wheelie bin into the alley. “You the ones from up-country then?” she asked, not unkindly, while wiping her hands on her apron. When I admitted we’d got lost she chuckled and pointed with her chin. “Follow the smell of chips and you’ll never go wrong round here.”

Inside, the cottage felt instantly welcoming: low ceilings, a kettle already filled, and a note from the owner promising fresh milk in the fridge. We dumped our bags and wandered the few steps to the beach, where the pebbles clicked underfoot like loose change. A man in a flat cap was untangling a crab line; he introduced himself as Reg and offered us a spare hook “on account of you looking like you could do with a proper Dorset breakfast.”

Back on the lane we bumped into young Sam from the corner shop, balancing a tray of pasties. He asked if we’d heard the brass band practising for the weekend, then launched into a story about last year’s sandcastle competition being ruined by an over-enthusiastic terrier. His laughter was so infectious that we ended up buying two pasties we didn’t strictly need.

Later, while we sat on the low wall outside the cottage with paper cups of tea, an elderly lady called Dot shuffled by with a shopping trolley. She paused to admire the hydrangeas and told us she’d lived in the same street since the war. “You’ll hear the foghorn at night,” she warned with a wink, “but after the third time it starts to sound like a lullaby.”

What struck me most was how quickly strangers became neighbours. Every short walk seemed to collect another name and another tale—about the best spot for crab bait, the quickest way to the esplanade when the tide turns, or simply which bakery still does a proper lardy cake. By the time the sun dipped behind the rooftops, I realised the mishap with the sat-nav had done us a favour; without it we might never have met the very people who made the cottage feel less like a holiday let and more like a borrowed front room in someone else’s cheerful, slightly chaotic, seaside family.