We’d barely been in the car an hour from the ferry when the satnav decided to send us on a scenic detour through every single-lane hedge in Anglesey. By the time we finally bumped down the narrow track to 4 Bed Cottage in Cemaes Bay, the boot was full of sand from an earlier “shortcut” and I’d managed to reverse into a very patient sheep. The cottage itself looked exactly like the photos—whitewashed walls, slate roof, and a little garden that opened straight onto the dunes—so at least the sheep hadn’t put us off our stride.

We’d planned to unpack and then wander the obvious path to the beach, but the first thing we noticed was a half-hidden stile tucked behind the garden wall. Curiosity won, and ten minutes later we were following a rabbit track that wound between gorse bushes instead of heading for the sand. The path dipped and rose until, quite suddenly, we found ourselves on a tiny crescent of shingle we’d never seen on any map. Driftwood lay in neat piles, and the only footprints belonged to oystercatchers. We spent the next hour skimming flat stones and pretending we weren’t completely lost.

Later, after a slightly damp trudge back, we tried again—this time armed with a proper OS map and the landlord’s tip about “the lane that isn’t on Google.” That lane led us past an old lime kiln half-swallowed by brambles and then, unexpectedly, to a freshwater stream trickling out of the cliffs. We followed it inland for twenty minutes until it opened into a sheltered hollow where someone had left a rope swing dangling from a twisted hawthorn. My partner claimed the first go; I managed about three seconds before the rope deposited me in a patch of mint. The smell stayed on my jeans for the rest of the afternoon.

By the time we returned to the cottage the light was turning golden over the bay. We sat on the garden bench with mugs of tea, watching the tide creep in, and realised we hadn’t actually made it onto the “proper” beach yet. Somehow that felt like the best part of the day. The mishaps and wrong turns had handed us a stretch of coast that felt entirely ours, and I couldn’t help thinking that getting gloriously lost might be the most reliable way to find the real Anglesey.