We’d been on the road for what felt like hours, the satnav cheerfully promising “ten minutes” for the last forty, when the satnav itself decided to have a lie-down. One minute we were trundling along the A171, the next the screen went black and we were left guessing which turning actually led to Raw. I took the wrong one, naturally, and we ended up reversing in a farm gateway while a tractor driver watched with the sort of pity usually reserved for lost tourists. By the time we finally bumped down the lane to the cottage, the boot was half-open, a bag of crisps had exploded across the back seat, and both children were loudly convinced we were never going to arrive at all.

The cottage itself looked exactly as the photos had promised—solid stone, low windows, a little wooden sign that read “4 Bed Cottage In Raw” as though it were stating the obvious. We tumbled out stiff-legged, the sea air hitting us like a reset button. It smelt of salt and woodsmoke, and the sound of waves was already carrying up from the cove below. The key was in the lockbox exactly where the owner had said, and the door swung open onto a low-ceilinged living room with a wood burner already laid, a couple of well-loved sofas, and a view straight out to the water that made the long drive instantly irrelevant.

We dumped the bags and did that instinctive first wander—peering into bedrooms, testing taps, discovering the little quirks. One of the beds had a dip in the middle that looked suspiciously like it had hosted several generations of holiday-makers; the kitchen had a kettle that whistled like a train. Nothing grand, just comfortable and properly lived-in. The children had already claimed the top bunks before we’d even finished unpacking the car, and I caught myself smiling at how quickly the place had been adopted.

Stepping back outside, the lane sloped gently toward the beach path. We followed it for ten minutes, trainers already gritty with sand, until the cove opened out in front of us—pebbles and rock pools, a few dog-walkers, and that wide grey-blue horizon that always makes you stand a bit straighter. Back at the cottage the kettle had finished its performance, and we sat on the low wall with mugs of tea, watching the light change on the water. The mishap on the road already felt like part of the story rather than an annoyance, the sort of small chaos that somehow makes the arrival sweeter.

It’s funny how a wonky satnav and a wrong turning can end up being the thing you remember first.