We’d barely made it off the A55 when the satnav decided to send us down what looked like someone’s driveway, and before I could say “recalculating,” we were wedged between two stone walls with the wing mirror kissing a hedge. My partner insisted it was a shortcut; the children insisted it was an adventure. Five minutes and a three-point turn later we were back on the proper road, laughing at ourselves and already in holiday mode by the time we pulled up outside Platinum 4+2 Hot Tub.

The cottage sat just a pebble’s throw from the beach path, its wooden cladding still warm from the afternoon sun. We tumbled out with sandy flip-flops already in hand, the faint smell of salt and warm tarmac drifting up from the lane. Inside, everything felt ready for us: the kettle was filled, the fridge had milk, and the patio doors slid open onto a little deck where the hot tub gave an encouraging bubble as soon as we flicked the switch. The kids claimed the top bunk before bags were even unpacked, while I stood in the kitchen wondering how somewhere so compact could already feel roomy.

We wandered down to the shore before supper, shoes kicked off, toes testing the cool water. The tide was out, leaving wide stretches of damp sand perfect for collecting tiny shells and the odd bit of driftwood. Back at the cottage the deck caught the last of the light, and we ate fish and chips straight from the paper while the hot tub steamed gently beside us. Later, once the children were asleep, my partner and I slipped into the bubbling water under a sky that still held a hint of pink. It felt ridiculously indulgent for a Tuesday.

There’s something about arriving somewhere new that resets your pace, even if the journey starts with a hedge-related incident. Sitting there, toes wrinkled from the tub and shoulders finally dropping, I realised how rarely we just stop. No plans beyond tomorrow’s walk along the promenade, no rush beyond whether the local bakery opens at eight. For these few days, that felt like more than enough.