We’d barely made it off the ferry at Holyhead when the satnav decided to have a minor meltdown, calmly directing us down a single-track lane that ended in someone’s driveway rather than the promised turn for Brynteg. After a polite but baffled chat with the chap whose wheelie bin we’d nearly flattened, we finally found 11 Parc Delfryn tucked behind a neat hedge, the low white cottage looking every bit the cosy Anglesey bolthole we’d pictured.

The first thing that struck me was how close the sea felt. Even before we’d unpacked the car, I could hear the soft hush of waves and smell that unmistakable mix of salt and warm grass. We dumped our bags inside, swapped walking boots for trainers, and headed straight out along the coastal path that runs just behind the row of houses. Within minutes we were striding past low dunes and marram grass, the sun surprisingly strong for late spring.

Our grand plan had been a proper yomp along the cliff tops towards Benllech, but the British weather had other ideas. One minute we were basking in shirtsleeves; the next, a fat grey cloud rolled in and the first fat drops sent us scurrying for the shelter of a handy stone wall. We huddled there, laughing at our own optimism, while the shower passed as quickly as it had arrived. Typical.

Once the sun reappeared we carried on, boots squelching pleasantly on the damp path. The route hugged the shoreline so closely that every few hundred metres we could nip down onto the sand for a quick paddle. The water was shockingly cold, but after the sudden rain it felt oddly refreshing. We spotted a couple of kayakers bobbing just offshore and a small fishing boat chugging past, its wake glittering in the returning sunlight.

By the time we looped back towards the cottage the clouds had cleared again, leaving that soft, golden light Anglesey does so well. My partner pointed out a bench overlooking the bay and we stopped for a while, watching a family fly a kite that kept dive-bombing the waves. It struck me, sitting there with damp socks and wind-blown hair, how rarely I actually switch off on holiday. The little satnav detour and the rain shower had already forced us to slow down and laugh at ourselves, and somehow that felt more restorative than any perfectly executed itinerary.

Back at 11 Parc Delfryn we kicked off our sandy shoes on the small patio, the scent of barbecues drifting from neighbouring gardens. The cottage’s big window framed a last streak of pink sky over the water, and I realised the day’s small mishaps had given us exactly the sort of easy, unhurried start we’d needed. Tomorrow we’d try the cliffs again, weather permitting, but for now it was enough to sit with a cuppa and watch the tide slip out.