We’d barely made it off the ferry before the satnav decided to play silly buggers and send us down a single-track lane that ended in someone’s driveway. After a polite but slightly panicked three-point turn involving a wheelie bin and a very unimpressed cat, we finally pulled up at Bryn Y Don, a cosy little place tucked just back from the beach in Anglesey. The moment we stepped out of the car the smell of salt and warm grass hit us, and any lingering ferry queasiness melted away in the sunshine.

The cottage itself looked exactly as we’d hoped: whitewashed walls, a cheerful red door, and a little garden with a bench that seemed to be calling our names. We didn’t even bother with the big shop we’d planned; instead we dumped our bags, grabbed the keys from the lockbox, and wandered straight down the short path to the beach. The tide was out, leaving wide, damp sand perfect for slow, aimless strolling, and the sun was doing that rare Welsh trick of staying properly hot without a single cloud in sight.

Back at the cottage we discovered the garden bench was every bit as comfortable as it looked. We sat there with mugs of tea, watching bees busy themselves in the lavender, and made a silent pact not to do very much at all. The next couple of days fell into an easy rhythm: morning coffee on the doorstep while the gulls wheeled overhead, then a lazy wander along the shoreline collecting the odd shell or bit of driftwood for no reason other than it felt nice in the hand. Afternoons were spent with paperbacks and the occasional doze, the sort of reading where you keep losing your page because the warmth makes your eyelids heavy.

Evenings brought the simplest of pleasures—fish and chips eaten at the little table outside, the paper wrappers rustling in the breeze, followed by the quiet satisfaction of doing the washing-up by hand because the window above the sink looked out over the garden. I caught myself, more than once, checking my phone out of habit only to put it straight back down again. There’s something gently ridiculous about realising you’ve been waiting for notifications when the only thing happening is the sun moving across the flagstones.

By the third morning I noticed I’d stopped glancing at the time altogether. The beach still called, but now it was less about walking anywhere in particular and more about standing with bare feet in the shallows, letting the small waves chase themselves around my ankles. Back at Bryn Y Don the kettle seemed permanently on the go, and the garden bench had become our unofficial headquarters for important decisions like whether to have another biscuit or just close our eyes for a bit.

It’s funny how little it takes to feel properly restored. A few days of sun on your face, sand between your toes, and absolutely nothing on the to-do list turned out to be exactly what we needed. As we packed the car on the last morning, the satnav could have led us anywhere and I doubt we’d have cared; the real journey had already happened, right there between the cottage and the sea.