We set off from York with the boot stuffed like we were moving house rather than staying two nights, and of course the sat-nav decided to send us down a lane so narrow the wing mirrors practically shook hands with the hedgerows. By the time we reached Scarborough the sun was already high, and I was convinced we’d overshot the turning for Coronation House. We circled the same roundabout twice before spotting the little white sign, then pulled up outside a neat terraced cottage whose front step caught the light in a way that made the whole journey feel suddenly worthwhile.

The key was in a lockbox exactly where the host had promised, though it took me three attempts to remember the code and another two to realise I’d been turning it the wrong way. Once inside, the first thing that hit me was the quiet; not silence, but the gentle hush of a place that had already decided we didn’t need to rush. Sunlight pooled across the living-room floorboards and the kettle was waiting on the worktop like an old friend. We made tea, carried the mugs straight out to the tiny back yard, and that was pretty much the rest of the afternoon decided.

The beach was only a few minutes’ walk, so after lunch we wandered down with nothing but towels and a paperback each. The tide was out, leaving wide, damp sand that squeaked under our shoes, and we found a spot near the old harbour wall where the breeze was just strong enough to keep the flies away. I read the same paragraph three times before giving up and simply watching the light change on the water. Every so often a dog would trot past with its owner trailing behind, both of them moving at the same unhurried pace we’d already slipped into.

Back at the cottage the evenings stretched in that lovely, unplanned way. We ate fish and chips from a paper parcel on the kitchen table, then sat with the door open until the light faded. I kept thinking I ought to plan something for the next day—maybe the castle, maybe the Spa—but the thought never quite took hold. Instead we woke late, made more tea, and repeated the pattern: beach, book, occasional paddle, occasional ice cream. The only real decision was whether to sit on the front step or the back yard when the sun moved round.

By the second afternoon I caught myself checking my phone less, not because I’d decided to, but because nothing urgent seemed to fit the pace we’d fallen into. Coronation House didn’t push us to do anything; it simply offered a chair in the sunshine and let the rest happen by itself. On the drive home I realised the sat-nav mishap on the way up had been the last stressful moment of the trip, and even that already felt like part of the story rather than a problem.