The question on our lips, as we turn off the coast road between Aldeburgh and Thorpeness on to an unmade access road, is: what is (or are) chicoutimi – the name of the house at which we are about to stay? I fancy they are South American birds with exotic plumage. By contrast, the house appears to be (as we park out front) a post-war plain Jane. What turns it into a des res is its beachfront position, with nothing between it and the sea.
We do a speedy recce. Ooh – lots of house for your money! Downstairs bathroom and twin bedroom, kitchen-diner, sitting room with wraparound sunroom (nice) off it. Up above, two doubles – one with balcony, both sea-facing – plus a second bathroom. "I've a good mind to ring and book this before your review goes in," M says.
We move to the delicious warmth of the sunroom, on what M describes as "the world's most comfortable" chairs, the tea tray laden with pretty blue cups and saucers from an old but perfect Wedgwood set found in a cupboard. The interior – deckchair stripes, wicker seating, sisal and polished wood – is not over-furnished or trying too hard (though I'd prefer a more comfortable sofa). It lets the seascape beyond our stone terrace do the talking.
Dusk. Blue fades to grey and seagulls pass by. We knock up a bit of fashionably late supper. The kitchen is large, with plenty of crockery, a four-slice toaster, salad spinner and coffee machine – and eventually we notice a back door through which is a utility room (washing machine, microwave, somewhere to put wet swimming things and the dog).
"This is the sort of house that can absorb a lot of people," says M. "Wet days indoors wouldn't be a problem."
In the sitting room, salt-bleached twigs from the beach are heaped on the brick fireplace for kindling. Once the fire is going we sit in companionable silence reading. A clock ticks.
Sky. Sea. Shingle. These define our world beyond the windows in the morning. I lie in bed listening to the waves. Downstairs, M has hooked up to the free Wi-Fi. Over coffee we Google chicoutimi. It is a Canadian river, an area of Quebec and a submarine. No South American birds.
We eat breakfast in the sea-salty fresh air at a wooden table on the terrace; the only sounds are gulls, the occasional crunch of shingle as a dog-walker goes by and the constant (slightly irritating after the first hour) rattle of the flagpole in next door's garden.
Strolling along the shore to Aldeburgh later on, we stop at the Maggi Hambling scallop sculpture, drink coffee on the front then return for a picnic lunch of seriously good local deli food from Lawson's. It's a pity I fail to find any sunloungers, and it's a pity that the downstairs shower is over the bath (a walk-in wetroom would have been easier for elderly grandparents to negotiate). That aside, the recreation of an Enid Blyton-ish adventure is pretty complete here. Oh, and the real meaning of chicoutimi is on the cottage website now – it is First Nations for "nice place beside deep water". I'll second that.
