We'd been on the road for nearly four hours when the sat-nav finally gave up the ghost just outside Scarborough, leaving us circling the same roundabout like confused seagulls. By the time we found Church View, the cottage looked so welcoming I almost forgave the map for its little rebellion. The front door opened straight onto a quiet lane with a view straight down to the sea, and the first thing that hit me was the smell of salt and frying chips drifting up from the beach below.

Our host had left the key in a little lockbox, which felt very grown-up until I managed to drop it down the drain while trying to take a "just arrived" photo. Ten minutes of fishing with a coat hanger later, we were inside, and the mishap already felt like part of the holiday. The living room was small but cosy, with a gas fire ready to go and a pair of armchairs positioned perfectly for watching the waves. Upstairs, the bedrooms were simple and spotless, the kind where you immediately kick off your shoes and feel at home.

From the kitchen window we could see the church tower across the street, its clock face catching the late afternoon sun. It gave the whole place a gentle, timeless feel, as though the town had been waiting patiently for us to arrive. We wandered down to the beach for our first proper look, shoes in hand, and the sand was still warm from the day. The tide was out, leaving rock pools and the occasional crab scuttling for cover, and I found myself thinking how rarely I actually stop and notice these small things anymore.

Back at the cottage, we made tea in mismatched mugs and sat on the little patio, listening to the gulls argue over someone's discarded chips. The journey felt like a distant memory now, replaced by that lovely, slightly dazed feeling you get when you've finally arrived somewhere that matches the pictures in your head. I caught myself wondering why it takes a wrong turn and a dropped key to remind me that the best bits of a holiday often start with small disasters.