We set off from the ferry in high spirits, maps at the ready and boots already laced, but the satnav decided to send us down a single-track lane that narrowed until the hedges brushed both wing mirrors. By the time we reversed out, laughing at our own optimism, the afternoon sun was properly hot and our plans for a long coastal walk had to be shortened. The little red house sat just back from the path that runs along the shore near Falkenberg, its garden gate opening straight onto the sandy track that leads towards the water.

The first thing that struck us was how close the sea felt. We dropped the bags, changed into shorts and trainers, and headed straight out, following the low dunes that stretch either side of the town. The path was firm underfoot and almost empty, with only the occasional dog-walker nodding hello. We had meant to reach the old lighthouse a couple of miles along, but the breeze that had cooled us earlier dropped away and the temperature climbed fast. Halfway there we turned back, grateful for the shade of a small pine stand, and instead wandered the gentle boardwalk that skirts the beach proper.

That change of plan turned out to be the best part. We found a stretch of pebbles where the water was shallow and clear, kicked off our shoes and paddled while watching a few locals fishing from the rocks. The house itself felt made for exactly this sort of easy, unplanned day: a wide deck with a table already set for coffee, a fridge stocked with cold drinks, and windows that let the evening light pour in. After our shortened walk we sat outside with sandwiches bought from the bakery in town, shoes still sandy, and realised we had spent the whole afternoon within a mile of the front door.

It made me think how often I pack too much into the first day and then feel rushed. Here the coast itself had slowed us down in the nicest way, turning a mishap into a slower, warmer wander that still felt like a proper adventure.