I finally made it to Sleepy Gull in Old Hunstanton after what felt like the world's most unnecessary detour. Picture this: I'd driven up from Cambridge on a gloriously sunny Friday afternoon, windows down, radio blasting some cracking indie tunes, dreaming of salty sea air and a proper Norfolk welcome. Norfolk's got that magic, doesn't it? Wide skies, endless beaches, and that laid-back vibe that makes you forget the rat race. But no, about five miles from King's Lynn, my sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly. "Recalculating," it chirped cheerfully as it directed me straight into a muddy farm track instead of the A149. Splattered in muck up to the hubcaps, I sat there laughing at myself – proper numpty moment. Who needs gravel rash when you've got Norfolk clay? A quick reverse and a detour through some charming back lanes (complete with a tractor that nearly gave me a mud facial) got me back on track, arriving at Sleepy Gull just as the sun dipped low over the salt marshes.

Pulling up to this superb old cottage, I was knackered but buzzing. It's one of those classic Hunstanton gems – stone-built, tucked away in a quiet spot off the main drag, yet only a stone's throw from the beach. The owner, a lovely chap called Mike, was waiting with keys in hand, all smiles despite my mud-spattered car looking like it'd been mud-wrestling. "No worries, love," he said in that proper Norfolk drawl. "Happens to the best of us." Handed over a welcome pack with fresh milk, biscuits, and a cheeky bottle of local wine – thoughtful touch, that.

Stepping inside, blimey, it was love at first sight. The living room's got this cosy nook with a wood-burning stove (not lit yet, but I could already imagine cosying up), squishy sofas begging for a collapse, and big windows framing the garden. Outside, it's a proper sun trap – paved patio with bistro table and chairs, flower tubs bursting with lavender and roses, and that faint whiff of sea holly. Perfect for a GandT at dusk. The kitchen's a dream for a solo traveller like me: compact but kitted out with everything from cafetière to that essential toaster. I bunged the kettle on straight away, munched a biccie, and just soaked it in. After the arrival chaos, this felt like a hug.

Upstairs, the bedroom was pure bliss – king-size bed piled high with fluffy pillows and a quilt that screamed "sleep like a log." Crisp white linens, sea-view window cracked open to let in the breeze. The en-suite's compact but spotless, powerful shower rinsing off my farm-track adventures in seconds. I stood there grinning like an idiot, thinking, "This is it – three days of nothing but waves and waffles."

First impressions? Overwhelmingly brilliant. That mishap made the arrival all the sweeter, turning potential stress into a daft story I'll dine out on. Wandered down to Old Hunstanton's beach that evening – just a ten-minute stroll – and watched the sun set over the Wash, sands stretching forever, seals barking in the distance. Grabbed fish and chips from a chippy on the front (proper crispy batter, mushy peas on point), ate them on a bench as the lights twinkled on. Sat there reflecting gently: life's too short for perfect sat-navs. Sometimes the detours drop you right where you need to be. Sleepy Gull? It's captured my heart already. Can't wait for day two.