We’d barely turned off the A171 when the satnav decided we were in for a laugh, cheerfully announcing we’d arrived while we were still halfway up the hill with the sea nowhere in sight. Ten minutes and one wrong turning later we finally pulled up outside Trillo House, the little terraced cottage that was meant to be our home for the next few days. The key safe was exactly where the host said it would be, tucked behind a pot of tired-looking lavender, and within minutes we were inside, kicking off sandy shoes we hadn’t even worn yet and breathing in that unmistakable mix of sea air and slightly damp stone floors.

The front room was small but welcoming, with a couple of squashy sofas and a wood burner that promised cosy evenings once the sun went down. We dumped our bags, made a quick cuppa in the compact kitchen, and wandered straight out again because the beach was literally at the end of the road. It took us less than five minutes to reach the sand, trainers in hand, the kids already racing ahead to inspect rock pools while my partner and I trailed behind, suddenly aware of how tightly we’d both been wound up from work and school runs.

Back at the cottage we unpacked properly, claiming bedrooms and marvelling at how everything we needed seemed to fit so neatly into such a modest space. The view from the upstairs window framed the harbour and the famous abbey ruins in the distance, but it was the nearness of the waves that really struck me. We could hear them even with the windows closed, a low, steady hush that made the rest of the world feel pleasantly far away.

That first afternoon set the tone for the break. We strolled along the promenade, bought chips from a little kiosk near the pier, and ate them sitting on the sea wall while seagulls wheeled overhead, clearly hoping for a chip-related disaster. Later we returned to Trillo House, lit the fire despite the mild evening, and played a daft board game we’d found on a shelf, the sort with missing pieces and rules nobody could quite remember. It was the sort of low-key evening that somehow felt more restorative than any fancy meal out.

As the light faded I found myself standing at the window again, watching the last dog-walkers on the beach and realising how rarely we simply stop like this. The mishap with the satnav already felt like part of the story, a reminder that the best bits of a holiday often begin when plans wobble a little. Outside, the tide was coming in, steady and unhurried, and inside the cottage the kettle was just beginning to whistle again.