We'd only just turned off the main road when the satnav decided we'd had quite enough help for one day and went completely blank. One minute we were following that cheerful blue line towards Summerhouse, the next we were staring at a grey screen while the lane narrowed and the brambles started scraping the wing mirrors. By the time we found the little turning hidden behind a hedge, we were both laughing so hard the dog thought we'd lost the plot entirely.

The cottage sat just back from the path that leads down to the beach, its whitewashed walls catching the late afternoon light and the windows thrown open as if it had been waiting for us. The key was exactly where the owner said it would be, under the flowerpot by the bench, and the first thing we did was drop our bags in the hallway and step straight out again. No unpacking, no grand tour—just straight down the sandy track with the sound of the waves already pulling us along.

That first evening set the tone for everything that followed. We wandered the stretch of sand until the light faded, then came back to the little garden with fish and chips from the village and a bottle of wine that had survived the journey in one piece. The next morning we woke to sunshine slanting across the kitchen table and simply stayed there, moving only when the kettle needed refilling or one of us fancied another round of toast. Books appeared on laps, phones stayed face-down, and the hours stretched in that lovely, lazy way they only do when there's genuinely nothing that must be done.

Most days followed the same gentle pattern. We'd carry mugs of tea down to the beach and find a spot out of the wind, reading in patches of sunlight while the tide crept in and out. Sometimes we'd walk a little further along the shore, collecting nothing in particular, just noticing the different colours of the rocks and the way the cliffs changed as the sun moved. Back at the cottage the garden became our second living room; one afternoon I spent a ridiculous amount of time watching a bumblebee work its way around the lavender while the dog dozed in the shade. It felt almost luxurious to move so slowly.

I caught myself, on the third morning, standing at the sink with the window open and realising I hadn't checked my emails since we arrived. The quiet felt unfamiliar at first, almost suspicious, as if I ought to be filling it with something useful. Then the kettle clicked off and I carried the tea outside instead, settling into the same chair I'd claimed the day before. By the time we left, the satnav was still sulking in the glovebox and neither of us minded in the slightest.