We’d only been on the road an hour when the sat-nav decided to send us down a farm track that clearly hadn’t seen a car since the milk lorry last week. By the time we’d reversed out of a hedge and I’d apologised to a mildly offended sheep, we were running late and the children were convinced we’d never find Tawny Cottage at all. Of course, the moment we turned into Seamer the little stone house appeared exactly where it should have been, tucked behind a low wall with the sea breeze already tugging at the roses.

The key was waiting in the promised lock-box, and the first thing that greeted us inside was the smell of wood-smoke and fresh bread left by the owners. The sitting room felt instantly ours: squashy sofas, a basket of driftwood by the wood-burner, and a view straight down the lane towards the dunes. We dumped the bags, kicked off shoes still gritty from the track, and wandered straight out again; the beach path starts practically at the garden gate.

Ten minutes later we were on the sand, shoes in hand, the tide just on the turn. The children raced ahead collecting what they insisted were “proper pirate shells,” while my partner and I trailed behind, already debating whether fish and chips from the hut on the front counted as tea or an early supper. Back at the cottage the little kitchen proved perfectly sized for holiday cooking: enough cupboards for the essentials, a temperamental but charming gas hob, and a table that caught the last of the evening light through the open door.

After a quick pasta we settled on the sofas with the doors wide, listening to the distant hush of waves and the occasional laugh from someone walking the coastal path. It struck me, watching the kids sprawl with comics they’d found on the shelf, how rarely we manage to arrive anywhere without an agenda. Here there wasn’t one. No itinerary, no must-see list, just the gentle permission to do very little and enjoy it thoroughly.