We set off from York on a Friday morning with the boot packed to the brim and two over-excited children arguing about who got the window seat. Everything was going smoothly until we missed the turning for the A64 and ended up doing an accidental loop through a housing estate that looked nothing like the coast. By the time we finally pulled into the little lane behind North Beach Lodge, the satnav had given up on us and so had my patience.

The cottage sat just a pebble’s throw from the sand, its pale stone front bright in the late sun. The key was waiting in a little lockbox by the blue door, and the moment we stepped inside the smell of toast from next door drifted through the open window. We dumped the bags, kicked off shoes, and the children were out on the tiny patio before I’d even found the kettle.

From the living-room window you could see the curve of the bay and the faint outline of the castle on the headland. It felt instantly familiar, the sort of place where you don’t need a plan. We wandered down the short path to the beach, shoes in hand, and the kids ran straight into the shallows while I stood there wondering why we don’t do this more often. The tide was out, leaving wide stretches of damp sand perfect for digging and collecting shells that would inevitably end up in the car.

Back at the cottage the kitchen proved small but perfectly stocked with the essentials: tea bags, a couple of mismatched mugs, and a fridge that hummed like an old friend. We made sandwiches with the bits we’d brought and ate them on the patio, watching the light change over the water. The children invented a game involving pebbles and an old tennis ball they’d found, and for once nobody asked for the iPad.

Later, with the sun low, we strolled along the promenade towards the amusements. The smell of vinegar and frying chips pulled us in, and we queued for cones of chips that we ate leaning against the railings. It wasn’t fancy, but it was exactly what we’d hoped for.

That first evening, once the children were asleep upstairs in the low-ceilinged bedrooms, I sat on the sofa with a cup of tea and listened to the faint hush of the waves. The small mishap on the road already felt like part of the story, the sort of thing you laugh about later. I realised how little we actually needed beyond a roof, some sand, and each other.