We set off from Dorchester on a drizzly Thursday, convinced the satnav knew a shortcut through the lanes. It didn’t. Twenty minutes later we were idling outside a farm gate while a tractor reversed, and that’s when I realised I’d left the house keys on the kitchen table back home. Luckily the neighbour who holds the spare set for Anchor House lives just round the corner from the cottage, so after a sheepish phone call we were let in without too much fuss—though the dog still gave us that look that said we’d already used up our quota of sensible decisions for the day.

Anchor House sits in a quiet terrace two streets back from the Esplanade, the sort of place where net curtains twitch if you linger too long on the doorstep. The front room smelled faintly of toast and sea air, and from the upstairs window you could just glimpse a slice of the bay between rooftops. We dumped the bags, made tea in mismatched mugs, and decided to “stretch our legs” before unpacking properly.

That walk turned into the real start of the holiday. Instead of heading straight for the beach we followed a narrow snicket that appeared between two garages, half expecting it to dead-end at someone’s wheelie bins. It didn’t. The path opened onto a strip of shingle tucked behind the old lifeboat station, where a handful of locals were quietly launching small dinghies. We stood there pretending we belonged until an elderly chap in orange waterproofs asked if we fancied a quick row out to check his crab pots. Ten minutes later we were bobbing about with the harbour wall sliding past, the town looking suddenly miniature and unfamiliar.

Back on dry land we wandered inland again, this time along an alley that climbed behind the old brewery. Halfway up we lost our bearings completely and emerged onto a pocket-sized green where a wooden bench overlooked a disused quarry garden. Someone had planted rosemary along the path edges; the scent mixed with the salt on the breeze in a way that made us both stop and breathe properly for the first time since leaving home.

By the time we found our way back to Anchor House the light had turned that soft grey-gold you only seem to get in Dorset. We sat on the front step with fish and chips from the kiosk at the bottom of the street, watching the streetlights come on one by one. I’d gone looking for a beach holiday and instead found a maze of tiny discoveries I hadn’t even known to put on the list. It felt like the sort of accident you should plan for more often.