We’d barely made it past the outskirts of Scarborough when the satnav decided to lead us down a lane that was really more of a suggestion than a road. One minute we were following the coast, the next we were bumping along a muddy track with the sea nowhere in sight. By the time we spotted the little wooden sign for The Pheasantry, the rain had started in earnest, and our boots were already soaked through from the short dash to the door.

It was early October, that peculiar stretch when the town still feels half-asleep after the summer rush but the air carries a sharp, salty edge that makes you want to wrap up. The cottage sat just back from the beach path, its garden dotted with the last of the lavender and a few wind-tossed roses. Inside, the heating had been left on low, and the smell of woodsmoke from somewhere nearby drifted through the open window as we kicked off our wet shoes.

We spent the first afternoon simply watching the weather roll in. From the living-room window we could see the tide pulling back across the sand, leaving dark ribbons of seaweed and the occasional brave dog walker. The light felt softer than it had in summer, more forgiving somehow, and it made the little sitting room with its mismatched armchairs feel properly cosy. We lit the wood burner—more for the crackle than the warmth—and drank tea while the rain tapped on the roof like impatient fingers.

Later we wandered down to the beach, scarves pulled high, and found the promenade almost empty except for a few locals throwing sticks for their dogs. The chip shop on the corner was still doing a steady trade, its windows steamed up, and we queued for paper parcels of cod and chips that tasted all the better for the cold air. Back at The Pheasantry we ate them straight from the paper on the kitchen table, listening to the occasional gust rattle the window frames.

That first evening I found myself standing by the back door, looking out at the dark line of the sea. It struck me how different the same place can feel once the crowds have gone; the quiet wasn’t emptiness, just a slower rhythm. The cottage seemed to settle around us, creaking gently as the heating came on again, and I realised I was already looking forward to waking up to whatever the next tide might bring.