We’d barely made it past the outskirts of Whitby when the satnav decided to have a sulk. One wrong turn down a lane that looked perfectly innocent on the screen and we found ourselves bumping along a track that seemed determined to shake the fillings out of us. By the time Mariner’s Watch came into view, a neat little cottage perched just back from the cliff edge, my nerves were as frayed as the old rope railings along the path. Still, the moment we stepped inside and caught that first whiff of salt and warm wood, the mishap started to feel less like a disaster and more like an unplanned invitation.

Rather than heading straight for the obvious seafront with its chip shops and arcades, we let curiosity steer us. A narrow footpath we hadn’t noticed on the map wound down between bracken and gorse, and before we knew it we were standing on a pocket-sized cove that wasn’t marked on any of the tourist leaflets. The tide was out, leaving rock pools that glittered like someone had scattered loose change. We spent a ridiculous amount of time crouched over them, trying to name the tiny darting fish and poking at anemones that closed up like shy fists.

Further along the cliff edge, half-hidden by a stand of wind-bent hawthorn, we stumbled across what looked like an old fisherman’s bothy. Its door hung slightly ajar, and inside were shelves of dusty jars and a calendar from 1997 still pinned to the wall. It felt like we’d wandered into someone else’s memory. We didn’t linger too long—felt cheeky enough just peering in—but the quiet thrill of finding it stayed with us all afternoon.

By the time we wandered back towards the cottage, the light was turning that soft, silvery grey that makes everything look a bit dream-like. We stopped at a bench we’d completely missed on the way down and watched a handful of locals walking their dogs along the tideline. It struck me then how easy it is, when you’re rushing about with plans and maps, to miss the bits that don’t shout for attention. Getting lost had handed us a handful of those bits on a plate, and I couldn’t help smiling at how grateful I felt for a faulty satnav and an afternoon with nowhere particular to be.