I’d only been on the road from York for about an hour when the sat-nav decided to send me down a single-track lane that clearly hadn’t seen a car since the milk float gave up in 1997. By the time I spotted the little wooden sign for Shepherd’s Hut, I was reversing into a hedge with the wing mirror folded like a sulky bat. Typical. Still, the moment I stepped out and caught the first proper lungful of salt air, the daft detour felt almost worth it.

The hut itself sat just behind a low dune, a neat timber box with a tin roof that glinted in the afternoon sun. Inside it was even smaller than the pictures suggested—one double bed tucked under the eaves, a couple of stools, and a kettle that looked older than me but still worked first time. The owners had left a note on the little table: “Beach is two minutes that way, tide times on the fridge.” No fuss, just the essentials. Perfect.

I didn’t unpack so much as drop my bag and head straight out. The path wound between marram grass and came out onto pale sand already warm underfoot. Scarborough’s South Bay curved away to my left, the castle ruins perched on their cliff like they were keeping an eye on everyone. I found a spot near the old sea wall, kicked off my shoes, and simply sat. Within ten minutes the only sounds were gulls and the gentle slap of small waves. No emails, no meetings, just the occasional dog walker nodding hello.

Back at the hut later I made tea and carried the mug outside to the single wooden chair. A paperback I’d meant to finish for months finally came out of the bag. Every so often I’d look up to watch the light change on the water—soft gold turning to peach as the sun dropped. Dinner was fish and chips from the kiosk at the end of the prom, eaten on the step with yesterday’s paper as a plate. No table needed.

The next morning I woke to sunlight slanting through the little window and the distant rumble of the first tram along the front. I didn’t rush anywhere. Instead I wandered down to the beach again, this time with a towel and the same book. By midday the tide was out far enough to leave wide stretches of damp sand perfect for slow, aimless walking. I collected a few shells without any plan to do anything with them, then sat on a breakwater and let my mind drift.

That afternoon the clouds stayed away, so I stayed put too. The hut’s little deck caught the warmth nicely, and between chapters I found myself just listening—to the breeze in the grass, the occasional burst of laughter from further along the shore, the faint chimes of an ice-cream van somewhere out of sight. It struck me how rarely I give myself permission to do exactly nothing. Here, with nowhere else I needed to be, the hours stretched in the best way.

By the time the light started to fade again I realised I hadn’t checked my phone once. The mishap on the lane already felt like a distant memory, replaced by the simple rhythm of sand, sun, and the quiet satisfaction of having done very little at all.