We’d barely got the suitcases out of the boot before the April drizzle turned into proper rain, the sort that finds its way down your collar no matter how fast you run. The satnav had insisted we were only three minutes away when we took the wrong turning off the A64, so by the time we reached Lonsdale Villa the back seat was a jumble of damp coats and one very soggy dog. The front door key was exactly where the host had promised, tucked under the terracotta pot by the step, and the moment it clicked open the smell of woodsmoke and fresh coffee drifted out to meet us.

Inside, the sitting room felt instantly welcoming, with its low beams and a wood burner already laid ready. We dumped the bags, flicked the kettle on, and stood dripping on the mat while the rain hammered the conservatory roof. Outside the window the garden sloped gently towards the South Bay, and even through the mist we could just make out the pale curve of sand and the pier lights beginning to glow. It was that in-between time of year when the town still felt half asleep after winter, yet the daffodils were pushing up along the paths and the air carried that clean, salty sharpness you only get before the summer crowds arrive.

We changed into dry clothes and wandered the few minutes down to the beach, hoods up, hands in pockets. The tide was out, leaving wide stretches of wet sand perfect for the dog to charge about without disturbing anyone. A couple of fishermen were already setting up near the rock pools, and the usual handful of hardy dog-walkers nodded as they passed. Back at the villa the heating had kicked in nicely, and we spent the rest of the afternoon with the doors open to the garden, listening to the gulls and the occasional burst of laughter from children on the nearby play area. The light lingered longer than it had in February, and every so often a patch of blue sky would appear, promising that spring really was on its way.

Later, with fish and chips from one of the seafront takeaways, we sat on the sofa watching the rain return. It wasn’t the golden, postcard holiday we might have pictured in July, but there was something restful about having the place almost to ourselves. I found myself thinking how often I rush through seasons, waiting for the “right” weather, when actually this damp, changeable April weekend had given us exactly the slow start we needed. The villa felt less like a holiday let and more like a borrowed home, and as the burner crackled we both agreed we’d happily come back before the summer rush.