Luxury Holiday Cottages in Wales

But there's a certain sort of madness an individual feels when they come to holiday in Wales. It usually starts with a raincoat, followed by the immediate, hopeful packing of a pair of sunglasses that, in truth, just won’t leave the glove box. But I am here — curled into a luxury cottage on the edge of the Brecon Beacons, and I must say, the madness is incredibly genius. There’s something just soul-soothing about the feeling of remaining in a place where floorboards are heated and the welcome hamper is loaded with a loaf of sourdough so structural it could easily serve as a doorstop. I have spent years roughing it in drafty B&Bs, the only “luxe” was a second tea bag, then I step into a freestanding copper bathtub with a glass of Welsh white wine, which is when the revelation dawns. I'm not a “rugged outdoorsy type” after all. I'm a looking at the rugged outdoors through a triple-glazed window while wearing a cashmere robe type.”. The Art of Doing Nothing at All. However, one needs to cross the barrier, eventually, and leave the sanctuary of the Egyptian cotton sheets. The locality demands it. Wales isn’t just green; it’s a kind of green that feels as though it’s on display. We roamed our first morning around the village, which was so picturesque it felt like a movie set. Locals are super friendly and almost sympathetic to your pristine hiking boots. I’ve now learned that the "Welsh weather" is actually an elaborate four-season cycle lasting every 45 minutes. You learn to enjoy the haze. It’s not rain; it’s "atmospheric hydration.". From Peaks to Pastries. If you can avoid the Nespresso machine, a trip to Hay-on-Wye could be a must. It is famously just the town of books, but for me it was the town of “how many Penguin Classics could I cram into my car before my suspension snaps.”

Through the narrow streets, ducking into honesty bookstores and smelling that glorious smell of old paper and damp stone, you feel your IQ growing at least ten points. I purchased a 1920s guide to birdwatching, though I did not distinguish between a red kite and some very ambitious pigeon. Once we had the semblance of drama, we headed for Conway. And even beneath the shadow of the castle, you really get a sense of what people did to try to keep other people out. It’s magnificent and brooding. We finished the day with fish and chips on the quay after all: protecting our mushy peas from seagulls which had grown as big and bold as small aircraft. The Self-Reflection Bit. Why do we love this? I think it’s the contrast. There’s something profoundly gratifying about spending a whole day in a coastal path in Pembrokeshire getting battered by a gale, feeling tiny and insignificant in the face of the Atlantic, only to pull back to a cottage where the logs are already in the wood burner. It’s the "Cwtch" factor. It’s an untranslatable Welsh word for a hug, or a safe place. A luxury cottage in the Welsh hills is the cwtch of luxury. You are humbled by the landscape throughout the day, adored by the amenities at the end of the day. It balances the scales of life. Standing here now, watching the sheep munch on a slope steep enough that they must have one leg shorter than the other, I’ve decided. Wales doesn’t care if you’re trendy or if it’s blowing a storm on your hair. It just wants you to sit down, eat a Welsh cake and see how there are still places like this to visit. Just remember to get the raincoat. And the sunglasses. You never know.