I’d barely turned the key in the ignition when the satnav decided to send us down a back lane narrower than a supermarket trolley. We were only five minutes from Royal Victoria House, but the hedge was scraping the passenger mirror and my partner was gripping the dashboard like it might jump out. By the time we reached the little gravel drive beside the beach, we were both laughing too loudly, the sort of laugh that comes when you realise you’ve just reversed into someone’s wheelie bin in full view of three dog-walkers.

The first person we met was Maureen from next door, who popped her head over the low wall with a mug of tea and a raised eyebrow. “You the ones who brought the traffic to a standstill?” she asked, and before I could apologise she’d already offered us a spare parking spot behind her garage. Within minutes we were standing on the front step of Royal Victoria House, suitcases still in the boot, while Maureen introduced us to her neighbour Stan, who was polishing the brass numbers on his own door and had strong opinions on the best fish and chips on the front. “Don’t bother with the big places,” he said, tapping his nose. “Ask for the haddock at the little hatch near the lifeboat station—tell them Stan sent you.”

We finally got the cases inside and the kettle on, but the house’s big bay window kept pulling us back to the street. Every few minutes someone new wandered past: a woman with a pushchair who waved because she’d seen us arrive, a retired couple walking their terrier who stopped to ask if we’d found the hidden steps down to the beach. By the time we’d carried our tea outside to the little bench, we’d collected three different recommendations for the best spot to watch the sunset and one gentle warning about seagulls that steal chips if you look away for longer than a second.

It struck me, sitting there with the salt air on my face and the faint sound of the tide, how quickly a place stops feeling like a postcode and starts feeling like a conversation. The funny part was that none of it had been planned—the mishap, the neighbours, the instant sense that everyone already knew we were here. We’d only meant to unpack and maybe find a supermarket, yet somehow we’d already been invited to a quiz night at the little pub round the corner and promised a slice of homemade lemon drizzle if we popped round to Maureen’s in the morning.

I caught myself wondering whether the real holiday had already started before we’d even put the kettle on properly, and whether the best bits of any trip are the ones that happen while you’re still trying to reverse out of someone else’s driveway.