We set off from the ferry in high spirits, the promise of a week at Bodior Lodge just a short drive away. The satnav, of course, had other ideas and sent us down a lane so narrow that our wing mirrors brushed the hedges. When a tractor appeared round the bend we both yelped, reversed into a passing place that turned out to be more puddle than solid ground, and arrived at the lodge with mud-splattered boots and slightly dented pride.

The cottage itself felt instantly welcoming. Whitewashed walls, a little garden sloping toward the dunes, and that unmistakable tang of salt on the breeze. We dumped the bags, changed into walking kit, and set straight off along the coastal path that runs just beyond the garden gate. The tide was out, revealing long stretches of firm sand, and we followed it toward the low cliffs that mark the edge of this stretch of Anglesey.

Lunch was meant to be a picnic on the headland, but by the time we reached the first stile the clouds had thickened and a fine drizzle began to speckle our jackets. We laughed, pulled on waterproofs, and kept going anyway; there’s something about British weather that turns every walk into a small adventure. The path hugged the shoreline, dipping through marram grass and past rocky coves where oystercatchers scolded us from a safe distance. Every so often the sun would break through, warming our faces for a minute or two before the next shower swept in.

By mid-afternoon we were back at the lodge, sandy and slightly damp, but oddly content. We spread our wet things over the radiators and made tea in the little kitchen that overlooks the garden. Sitting there, watching the weather chase itself across the bay, I realised how rarely we slow down enough to let a day unfold like this. The mishap on the lane, the changeable sky, even the muddy boots by the door – they all felt part of the same gentle rhythm. Tomorrow we might try the longer route past the old lookout tower, or we might not; either way, the coast will still be there, and so will we.