We'd only been on the road for about forty minutes when the satnav decided Anglesey was best reached via a single-track lane that promptly narrowed into someone's driveway. After a three-point turn that involved a very patient sheep and rather more reversing than dignity allows, we finally rolled up to Bell House just as the sun broke through. The cottage sat a short stroll from the beach, its whitewashed walls catching the light and the garden gate already half-open as if it had been expecting us.

First impressions were all about that view. From the doorstep you could see the curve of the bay and the path that hugged the cliffs, and we were itching to get out straight away. We dumped our bags, swapped trainers for proper walking boots, and set off along the coastal trail that runs right past the house. The tide was out, revealing stretches of pale sand perfect for a barefoot paddle later, and the air smelled properly of salt and warm grass.

We hadn't gone far when the British weather, never one to be left out of a plan, sent a brisk wind scudding across the headland. What had looked like a settled afternoon turned into one of those classic Anglesey moments where the sun keeps shining but your jacket suddenly feels essential. We laughed, pulled on an extra layer each, and carried on anyway, following the path as it dipped and rose above little coves.

The trail wound past rocky outcrops where seabirds wheeled and called, and we stopped often to watch the water change colour from deep blue to turquoise where it shallows. A couple of other walkers nodded hello, dogs bounding ahead of them, and it felt companionable rather than crowded. By the time we reached a sheltered inlet about a mile along, the wind had dropped again and we found a flat rock to sit on with the sandwiches we'd grabbed from the village shop earlier.

Sitting there, watching the waves fold onto the shore, I caught myself thinking how rarely we actually slow down like this. The mishap with the satnav had already put us in holiday mode, the sort where small disasters become stories rather than stresses, and the changeable sky only added to it. We lingered until the light started to soften, then wandered back the way we'd come, stopping to collect a few interesting shells that would doubtless end up in a pocket and be forgotten until laundry day.

Back at Bell House the garden felt like an extension of the beach path, and we sat outside with mugs of tea while the evening cooled. The cottage itself was simple and welcoming, the kind of place that doesn't need much doing to it because the location does all the work. Tomorrow we'd probably try the longer stretch of coast in the other direction, weather permitting, though we'd already learned that "permitting" was doing a lot of heavy lifting round here. Still, that was half the charm.