We’d barely got the satnav sorted when the first proper holiday disaster struck. Somewhere between the A55 and the roundabout outside Valley I managed to misread the turning and took us on a scenic detour past a field of slightly judgemental sheep. By the time we pulled up outside 2 Trem Y Mor, my other half was pretending not to laugh and the kids were loudly announcing they needed the loo.

Still, the cottage felt like it had been waiting for us. Painted a cheerful white that caught the afternoon light, it sat just a short walk from the beach path, with enough space in the little front garden for wellies and sandy buckets. The moment the door clicked open we were hit by that unmistakable seaside-cottage smell—faint woodsmoke, fresh air, and something like distant salt. Inside, the living room was exactly the right size for four people and a sprawl of board games, and the kitchen window looked straight out towards the water.

We didn’t bother unpacking properly at first. Instead we grabbed the nearest jackets and wandered down the lane, the sound of waves getting louder with every step. The beach itself was the proper, windswept sort—wide, pale sand, a few families already building elaborate sandcastles, and a couple of dogs charging in and out of the shallows. The kids were in the water before I’d even finished rolling up my trousers, and I stood there watching them, wondering why it always takes a child to remind you how cold Welsh sea really is.

Back at the cottage the evening settled in gently. We cooked a simple tea using whatever we’d remembered to bring, then sat on the little patio with mugs of tea while the light faded over the bay. The only plan we’d made was “see how we feel,” and it turned out we felt like doing very little. A walk along the coastal path in one direction took us past quiet fields and the occasional bench perfectly placed for watching the ferry slip by on the horizon. In the other direction the path curved towards a small bay where rock-pooling became the unexpected highlight of the afternoon.

What struck me most, watching everyone troop back sandy and content, was how little we needed. The cottage didn’t demand anything grand from us—no itinerary, no rush. It simply offered a warm place to return to when the wind picked up or when small legs got tired. I found myself thinking about how often holidays turn into checklists; here the only real requirement seemed to be remembering to shake the sand out of your shoes before you came inside.

By the second morning we’d already fallen into an easy rhythm—breakfast overlooking the garden, a slow wander to the beach, then back for lunch and a bit of quiet reading while the children played with whatever treasures they’d collected. It felt less like “doing Anglesey” and more like borrowing a corner of it for a few days. And after the satnav mishap on the way in, getting slightly lost on arrival now felt like the best possible start.