We'd been on the road since half six that morning, crawling through the usual tailbacks on the M3, and by the time we finally turned off towards Weymouth the satnav had given up trying to be helpful. I was convinced we'd taken the right exit, but somehow ended up on a narrow lane that got narrower with every bend until we were nose-to-tail with a tractor. That's when the small mishap happened: I reached for the map on my phone, knocked my coffee clean into the footwell, and spent the next five minutes apologising to the upholstery while my partner tried not to laugh. By the time we pulled up outside Cliffwalk Cottage the car smelled faintly of espresso and regret.

The cottage sits just back from the path that runs along the cliff edge, and even before we'd wrestled the bags out of the boot the view had already made the journey worth it. Portland Harbour stretched out below us, the water shifting between grey and silver under a patchy sky, while the curve of Weymouth Beach lay to our left like a long strip of pale ribbon. The front door opened straight onto a little gravelled area with a bench, and the moment we stepped inside the smell of woodsmoke from the wood burner still lingered in the air, even though it was July.

We left the cases by the stairs and went straight through to the kitchen to open the back door. A short path led down to a small patio with two weathered chairs and a view straight over the water. The tide was out, exposing stretches of wet sand and rock pools, and a couple of paddleboarders were already making their way along the shoreline. I could hear the low rumble of the ferry heading out towards France, and the occasional shout from children further down the beach. It felt like the sort of place where you could sit for hours without needing to do anything at all.

Inside, the living room was simple and comfortable: a big sofa facing the window, a couple of lamps that gave off a warm glow even in daylight, and a bookshelf stuffed with old paperbacks and local walking guides. We'd planned to unpack properly, but somehow ended up just standing there, looking out, still half in travel mode. The coffee incident already felt like ancient history. I caught myself thinking how easy it is, after a long drive, to forget that the point of getting somewhere isn't the arrival itself but what happens in the first quiet minutes once you've stopped moving.