We’d barely turned off the A55 when the satnav decided to have a meltdown, cheerfully directing us down a farm track that ended in a gate and three very unimpressed sheep. By the time we’d reversed back onto the proper lane, the October drizzle had turned into proper rain and our “quick dash” from the car to Bryn Meilw’s front door left us both soaked and laughing like idiots. Still, the cottage looked exactly as the photos promised: whitewashed stone, slate roof, and a little wooden porch that somehow managed to feel both cosy and windswept at once.

Inside, the heating had been left on low, so the place smelled faintly of woodsmoke and sea air. We kicked off our wet shoes, made tea in mismatched mugs, and stood at the kitchen window watching the clouds scud across the bay. It was that soft, in-between season—not quite autumn anymore, not yet winter—when the light changes every ten minutes and you can’t quite decide whether to put the fire on or open a window. The owners had left a basket of logs and a note about the tide times, which felt wonderfully old-fashioned and exactly right for mid-October.

Once we’d dried off, we wandered the short path to the beach, hoods up against the wind. The sand was empty except for a scattering of razor shells and a single red buoy that had washed up weeks ago. We walked until our cheeks stung, then turned back when the rain started again, grateful for the cottage’s thick walls and the kettle we’d left on. Later, curled on the sofa with the curtains drawn, we realised how much the shorter days change everything: no pressure to “do” anything, just the slow rhythm of meals, books, and the occasional dash outside between showers.

By evening the sky had cleared just enough for a pinkish streak over the water, and we stood on the porch in jumpers, mugs in hand, listening to the waves. It struck me then how easily a rainy arrival can set the tone for a whole stay—making you slow down, laugh at small disasters, and notice things you might otherwise miss. Bryn Meilw didn’t need sunshine to feel welcoming; the season had done that job already.