I’ll never forget the drive up to Portrush – or rather, the near-disaster that kicked off our holiday. We’d piled into the car in Belfast, buzzing with that proper Northern Irish anticipation of salty sea air and fish suppers, only for the sat-nav to chuck a wobbly just as we hit the A2 coastal road. It insisted on a shortcut through some back lane that turned out to be a glorified goat track, complete with potholes big enough to swallow a hubcap. My other half was gripping the door handle like it was a lifeline, and I’m pretty sure I aged a year swearing at the screen – though in that polite, gritted-teeth way you do when you’re trying not to ruin the vibe. We emerged, slightly frazzled but laughing, onto the promenade in Portstewart, the North Atlantic crashing away like it was putting on a show just for us.

Pulling up to the place, my heart did a little flip – there it was, this cracking little single-storey annex tucked right near the beach, all bright and welcoming like it knew we needed a hug after the road rage. First impressions? Spot on. Stepping inside felt like slipping into a cosy hug from an old mate. The open-plan setup was genius – double bed looking plush as you like, a neat kitchenette with all the bits to whip up a fry-up or pasta, a wee dining table for two, and a sitting area with the telly ready for a binge. The shower room? Sleek and inviting, promising hot blasts to wash away the drive’s grime. It screamed perfect couples’ retreat, tranquil and thoughtful without trying too hard.

We dumped the bags and legged it straight out for a coastal walk along the strand – Portstewart’s beach is pure magic, miles of golden sand stretching towards the headlands, with dog walkers and kite flyers dotting the scene. The sun dipped low, painting everything orange, and I couldn’t help but chuckle at how we’d gone from navigational Armageddon to this in under an hour. Popped into town for chips from a chippy that smelled like heaven – crispy batter, mushy peas, the works – and ambled back as the light faded.

That evening, we rustled up scran in the kitchenette (cheers to the well-stocked basics), plonked at the table with a couple of tins, then flopped on the sofa for some rubbish TV. Dead relaxing. As I lay in that comfy double bed later, listening to the waves, I had one of those quiet moments – you know, reflecting on how daft it is to let a daft sat-nav mishap steal the joy. Holidays like this, in a gem near Portrush’s buzz yet peaceful enough for soul-recharging, remind you life’s too short for wrong turns. We woke refreshed, ready for more – Giants Causeway glimpses from afar, maybe a potter to Portrush’s arcade, but honestly, this little haven had us hooked from the off. Absolute belter of a stay.