We’d been on the road from Leeds for what felt like hours, the sat-nav cheerfully promising “just ten more minutes” every time we hit another roundabout. By the time we finally turned into Deepdale Avenue, the car was thick with the smell of service-station coffee and the faint whiff of damp sand already clinging to our trainers. I was still laughing about the wrong turn that had sent us down a cul-de-sac full of wheelie bins when the sat-nav announced we had arrived—right outside number one.

The Manor House looked exactly like the photos, only smaller and somehow friendlier. Its pale stone caught the late-afternoon sun, and the little iron gate gave a satisfying creak as we pushed it open. A pot of tired-looking geraniums sat by the doorstep, and the brass knocker was shaped like a tiny anchor—details that immediately made the place feel ours for the week. We fumbled with the key safe, dropped it once, then finally stepped inside to the scent of fresh linen and a faint trace of sea air drifting through an open window.

The kitchen greeted us with a kettle already filled and a note from the owner suggesting we “put the kettle on before unpacking,” which we did straight away. From the back window we could just glimpse the curve of South Bay, the tide far out and the sand looking almost white in the low light. It was close enough that we could hear the occasional cry of gulls above the rooftops, yet the street itself felt surprisingly quiet for a seaside town.

After tea we wandered the few minutes down to the promenade, trainers still sandy from our earlier detour. The beach was busy with families packing up for the day, buckets and spades abandoned in little forts, and the smell of hot doughnuts drifting from a nearby stall. We didn’t stay long—just long enough to dip toes in the shallows and watch a small dog chase its own shadow across the wet sand.

Back at the cottage the living room already felt lived-in; someone had left a stack of old board games on the sideboard and a couple of well-thumbed paperbacks about Yorkshire walks. I sank into the sofa, suddenly aware how tightly I’d been gripping the steering wheel all afternoon. The mishap on the way had been nothing, really—just an extra five minutes—but it had set the tone for everything since: slow down, laugh about it, keep going. Outside, the streetlights were beginning to glow, and the sound of the waves carried faintly on the breeze. For the first time in months I felt properly arrived.