I’d been on the road for hours, crawling up the A90 with the radio fading in and out, when the satnav decided to send me down a single-track lane that was definitely not meant for anything wider than a bicycle. There was a soft thud as the wing mirror kissed a hedge, and I spent the next five minutes apologising to a mildly offended sheep. By the time I reached Maia, tucked just behind the dunes outside St Andrews, I was half convinced the cottage had moved while I wasn’t looking.

The first thing that hit me was the quiet. Not silence, exactly, but that soft, salted hush you only get near the sea when the wind drops. I parked on the gravel, grabbed my bag, and stood for a moment just staring at the little whitewashed front. It looked smaller than the photos, cosier, the sort of place that might fit two people comfortably and three if nobody minded sharing the sofa. The door key was exactly where the host said it would be, under the flowerpot with the slightly lopsided pansies, and I felt oddly pleased at having got that bit right after the mirror incident.

Inside, everything smelled faintly of woodsmoke and fresh linen. The kitchen was compact but perfectly arranged; I managed to locate the kettle without opening every cupboard twice. Through the sitting-room window I could see a slice of the beach path, and already there were dog walkers in bright jackets heading towards the water. I made tea, carried it outside, and sat on the low wall that separated the garden from the dunes. The air was sharper than I’d expected for September, the kind that makes you pull your sleeves down without thinking.

My phone buzzed with a message from my sister asking if I’d arrived in one piece. I replied with a photo of the view instead of words, then caught myself smiling at how quickly the journey stress had slipped away. The mishap with the hedge already felt like a story rather than a nuisance, the sort of small chaos that makes you notice the calm that follows. From where I sat I could hear the distant wash of waves and, closer, the occasional creak of the garden gate in the breeze. It struck me that sometimes the best part of getting somewhere isn’t the grand reveal but the moment you stop moving and simply let the place settle around you.