We’d been on the road for hours, the M56 giving way to narrower lanes and the odd sheep that clearly hadn’t read the Highway Code, when the sat-nav decided our cottage was somewhere in the middle of a field. I pulled over, squinted at the map, and confidently announced we were “nearly there.” Ten minutes later we were reversing down a single-track lane because I’d turned too early at the red phone box and ended up nose-to-nose with a tractor. My partner didn’t say a word; the raised eyebrow said it all.

By the time we finally crunched onto the gravel at Belan Wen the light was fading, but the view more than made up for it. The little whitewashed cottage sat just back from the shore, its garden gate opening straight onto a strip of sand that curved away towards Beaumaris. We tumbled out stiff-legged, breathed in that unmistakable mix of salt and damp grass, and immediately felt the journey start to slide off our shoulders.

Inside, everything felt ready for us. A kettle already filled, a couple of mugs waiting on the side, and that faint scent of woodsmoke from the stove that told us someone had lit it earlier. We kicked off sandy shoes by the door and padded across the sitting-room rug, drawn to the big window that framed the Menai Strait turning silver in the dusk. Even the dog, who’d spent most of the drive sighing dramatically on the back seat, perked up and began nosing around the wicker basket of logs as if he owned the place.

We didn’t unpack properly that first evening; instead we wandered down to the water’s edge with takeaway fish and chips from the village, perching on a low wall while the tide whispered in. It was properly quiet—no traffic, just the occasional curlew calling and the faint clink of rigging from a yacht moored further along. I caught myself thinking how rarely we switch off like this, how the simple business of watching the light change could feel like an event in itself.

Later, back at the cottage, I stood in the doorway with a mug of tea and watched the last ferry lights slide past on the Strait. The earlier sat-nav panic already felt like a story we’d laugh about over breakfast. For once, arriving had been just as good as being there.