We’d been on the road for what felt like half a lifetime when the satnav decided to have a little joke at our expense. One minute we were trundling happily along the A64, the next it was barking “turn left” into what turned out to be somebody’s driveway, complete with a rather startled tabby and an irate bloke in slippers. By the time we’d reversed out, apologised through the window and found the proper turning for Scarborough, my other half was threatening to bin the thing out the window and I was laughing so much I nearly missed the sea appearing on our left like a sudden, silvery surprise.

Crabtree Cottage sits just back from the South Bay, tucked behind a row of pastel terraces that still manage to feel properly seaside rather than showy. We pulled up outside a neat little stone house with a blue door and a hanging basket that had clearly seen better days—much like us after four hours in the car. The key was in the promised lockbox, though it took three attempts and a muttered prayer before it finally clicked. Stepping inside felt like walking into someone else’s Sunday afternoon: the faint smell of toast and sea air, a kettle already filled on the hob, and a note from the owner wishing us “a cracking stay.”

We dumped the bags in the tiny hallway and immediately made for the back door that led straight onto a pocket handkerchief of garden. From there you could just glimpse the beach through a gap in the houses, the tide out and the sand looking freshly swept. It was the sort of view that makes you want to kick your shoes off even though you’ve only just arrived. Inside, the living room was all low ceilings and mismatched armchairs that somehow worked together, and the kitchen had that reassuring collection of mismatched mugs you only ever find in proper holiday lets.

After the satnav saga, the quiet felt almost suspicious. I stood in the middle of the room for a moment, listening to the faint tick of the clock and the occasional gull, and realised I’d been holding my shoulders up around my ears since we left home. They dropped a good inch right there on the threadbare rug. We made tea—proper builder’s strength—and carried the mugs out to the front step, watching families trail back from the beach with buckets and damp towels.

Nothing dramatic had happened yet, and that was exactly the point. The cottage didn’t need to impress; it simply let us arrive, laugh about the wrong turning, and feel the day slow down around us.