We set off for Columbus Retreat on a grey Thursday afternoon, the boot stuffed with far too many snacks and the satnav cheerfully insisting we were already there when we were still on the A64. The small but funny mishap came when I grabbed what I thought was our bag of beach towels from the back seat, only to discover I’d nicked the neighbour’s bag of gardening tools instead. By the time we’d laughed ourselves silly and swapped them over at the next services, the sun had decided to make an appearance, and the mood in the car lifted with it.

Columbus Retreat sits just off Columbus Ravine, a short stroll from the North Bay sands, and the moment we pulled up outside the little terraced cottage I felt the week begin to slow down. The front door opened straight into a cosy living room where a couple of well-loved sofas faced a modest telly, and a faint smell of toast still hung in the air from whoever had stayed before us. Upstairs, the two bedrooms were simple and spotlessly clean, with crisp white bedding and those heavy curtains that actually keep the morning light out—bliss when you’ve got small people who still wake at dawn.

We dumped the bags, made a quick cuppa in the compact kitchen, and wandered the few minutes down to the beach. The tide was out, leaving wide stretches of damp sand perfect for a lazy kickabout with the kids while the seagulls wheeled overhead. Later, back at the cottage, we sat on the little patio with fish and chips from one of the North Bay kiosks, watching the light fade over the water and listening to the gentle hush of waves rather than the usual weekday traffic.

What struck me most, though, was how little we needed to do. There’s something quietly restorative about a place where the biggest decision is whether to walk left or right along the prom for an ice cream. I caught myself checking my phone less, not because the signal was poor, but because the view from the living-room window—peeking between rooftops towards the bay—was simply more interesting than whatever notification might pop up.

By the second morning, the neighbour’s gardening tools were a distant joke and the cottage already felt like ours. The kettle clicked on without anyone asking, the kids knew which drawer held the beach mats, and I found myself standing at the back door with a second mug of tea, wondering why it always takes a few days away to remember how little it takes to feel content.