We’d been on the road for hours, the A64 stretching out like it had a personal vendetta, when the satnav decided to send us down a narrow back lane just outside Scarborough. One wrong turn later and we were wedged between two stone walls with the wing mirror kissing the ivy. After a bit of undignified reversing and a helpful cyclist shouting directions, we finally limped into the drive of 315 Filey Road, laughing too loudly at our own expense.

The cottage sat just far enough from the main road to feel tucked away, yet close enough that you could already taste salt on the breeze. I stepped out stiffly, knees cracking like old floorboards, and the first thing that hit me was how quiet it was compared to the dual carriageway. No horns, no lorries, just the faint whoosh of waves somewhere beyond the rooftops and the neighbour’s cat giving us the once-over from a garden wall.

Inside, the place felt instantly welcoming in that slightly cluttered, lived-in way that makes you relax before you’ve even unpacked. The living room had big windows that caught the late afternoon light, and a sofa that looked like it had hosted more holiday naps than arguments. We dumped our bags by the door and wandered through to the kitchen, where someone had left a note about the best fish and chips in town scribbled on the back of an envelope. That small touch made the whole cottage feel less like a booking and more like borrowing a friend’s spare room.

By the time we’d made tea and carried the mugs outside, the sun was starting to dip and the air had that soft, cool edge that always surprises you after a long drive. From the little patio you could just glimpse the curve of the bay, the kind of view that makes you stand there longer than you meant to, mug going cold in your hands. I found myself thinking how rarely we actually stop and notice when we’ve arrived somewhere properly.

Later, still slightly giddy from the journey and the relief of finally being still, we strolled the short distance down to the beach. The tide was out, leaving wide stretches of damp sand perfect for aimless wandering. We didn’t do much except kick at pebbles and watch a dog chase its own reflection in the shallows. It felt like the perfect low-key beginning to the week, the kind of gentle start that doesn’t demand anything from you except to be there.

As we headed back, the cottage windows glowed warmly in the dusk, and I caught myself hoping the rest of the holiday would be just as unhurried. Sometimes the best trips begin not with grand plans, but with a slightly embarrassing parking incident and the simple pleasure of finally putting the kettle on.