We’d only just pulled off the A5025 when the satnav decided we were better off in a field. One wrong turn later we were bumping down a single track with brambles scraping the car doors, and by the time we found the right lane to the 4 Bed Cottage the cheese we’d bought for tea had slid under the passenger seat and looked distinctly sorry for itself. Still, the moment we stepped inside, the smell of woodsmoke and sea air made the detour feel almost planned.

The kitchen was the first thing that caught us: a big square table, a decent hob, and a fridge already humming like it knew we’d over-shop. We dumped the bags, rescued the cheese, and headed straight back out for something proper to go with it. Five minutes down the lane brought us to a little honesty-box stall selling fresh cockles and laverbread; we bought a tub of each, promising ourselves we’d do them justice later.

By early evening the light had that soft, silvery quality you only seem to get on Anglesey. We wandered into Amlwch and found the Stag, half pub, half living room, where the chips arrive still sizzling and the local bitter tastes faintly of the sea. We ordered scampi and mushy peas, then, feeling brave, added a side of laverbread cakes. They arrived dark, crisp, and surprisingly gentle; we mopped up every last bit with bread and butter and declared the meal research rather than greed.

Back at the cottage the next morning, we tried our hand at breakfast. The market in the village square had opened early, so we came away with thick butcher’s sausages, new potatoes, and a punnet of fat strawberries. I managed to burn one side of the toast while trying to watch the sausages, but the potatoes turned out golden and the strawberries needed nothing but a dusting of sugar. We ate on the little patio, seagulls wheeling overhead, and decided the slightly charred toast gave everything else character.

Lunch was meant to be light, but the smell of fresh bread from the bakery lured us in again. We left with crusty rolls and a wedge of Caerphilly, then detoured to the beach for an impromptu picnic on the low wall by the car park. The tide was out, the sand still damp, and the cheese kept trying to escape in the breeze; we ate with our elbows tucked in and laughed every time another slice took flight.

By the final evening we’d settled into a rhythm: a late stroll to the local chippy for battered cod, then back to the cottage to attempt a proper Anglesey cream tea with the scones we’d bought that morning. The jam-to-clotted-cream ratio caused a brief domestic debate, settled only when we both reached for the same spoon. Sitting there, kettle whistling and the windows open to the dusk, I realised the journey’s small disasters had done us a favour; they’d slowed us down enough to notice every meal, every market stall, every shared plate.