We’d barely turned off the main road towards Trearddur Bay when the satnav decided we were already there, sending us down a single-track lane that ended at someone’s garage. After a sheepish three-point turn and a wave to the unimpressed owner, we finally pulled up at Bryngwyn, the little white cottage tucked just back from the beach. The key was waiting under the flowerpot exactly as promised, and within minutes the kettle was on and we were peering out at the sand through salt-flecked windows.

First impressions were all about the kitchen. It was small but perfectly stocked with decent pans, sharp knives and a proper teapot, which felt like an invitation to get stuck in straight away. We’d stopped at the little Spar on the way through Holyhead for bacon, eggs and a crusty loaf, so breakfast turned into a proper fry-up with the windows open so the smell of sizzling wouldn’t linger. By the time we’d washed up we were already planning lunch.

The walk into the village took less than ten minutes, and we found ourselves at the Beach Hotel for a pint and a plate of scampi and chips. Sitting outside with the tide creeping in felt like the sort of simple pleasure you only notice on holiday. Later we wandered to the little weekly market that pops up near the lifeboat station on Thursdays, coming away with fresh cockles, a wedge of Caerphilly and some local honey. Back at Bryngwyn we tried to recreate a proper Anglesey seafood supper, boiling the cockles with a splash of white wine and serving them with thick bread. It was mostly successful, apart from the moment I managed to tip half the shells into the sink rather than the bowl.

By evening we were ready for something a bit more substantial, so we strolled down to the Seacroft Inn for their famous Sunday roast. The portions were generous enough that we ended up boxing the leftovers for the next day’s sandwiches. Over pudding we got chatting to a couple from Manchester who’d been coming here for years, and they tipped us off about the fish and chip van that parks by the rugby club on Friday nights. We made a mental note to investigate.

The next morning began with another kitchen experiment: Welsh cakes on the griddle. Mine came out slightly charred on one side, but we ate them anyway with plenty of butter and the honey from the market. Later we popped into the little deli near the harbour for pasties to take down to the beach, watching the kids skim stones while we ate them straight from the paper bag. It struck me, watching the gulls wheel overhead, how much of the trip was already revolving around what we were going to eat next.

By the third evening we’d settled into a rhythm: morning coffee on the patio, a market or deli raid, then back to Bryngwyn to cook or simply heat up whatever we’d brought home. The cottage’s little dining table became our headquarters for planning the next meal, and I found myself wondering why we don’t eat this way more often at home. Maybe it’s the sea air, or maybe it’s just having the time to linger over a loaf of bread and a pot of tea. Either way, between the cockles, the roasts and the slightly burnt Welsh cakes, Bryngwyn already felt less like a place we were staying and more like somewhere we’d started to belong, at least until the next ferry.