We’d been on the road for what felt like days, though the satnav insisted it was only five hours from home. The last stretch across Anglesey seemed to drag on forever, with every bend promising the sea and then delivering another field of sheep. By the time we turned down the narrow lane towards Carreg Rhys, the children were bickering and I was gripping the wheel like it might escape. Then came the tiny mishap: I misjudged the width of the gateposts and clipped the wing mirror on a friendly stone pillar, sending it swinging like a broken wing. Nothing dramatic, just enough to make us laugh a bit too loudly with relief that it wasn’t worse.

Pulling onto the gravel in front of the cottage, the sea air hit us straight away, sharp and clean after hours of motorway fumes. Carreg Rhys sat low and whitewashed, tucked just back from the dunes, its windows glinting in the late light. The short path to the beach was already visible, a sandy track winding between marram grass, and I could hear the soft hush of waves even before we’d properly parked. It felt instantly calmer than the car journey suggested it would.

We tumbled out stiffly, stretching and breathing it in. The children raced off to inspect the little wooden gate that led onto the sand, while I stood for a moment just looking at the place. It was exactly the sort of cottage you picture when someone says “beach holiday in Wales”: solid, unpretentious, with a bench by the door that already looked perfect for morning coffee. The mishap with the mirror had somehow broken the tension of the drive; now everything felt a little lighter, as if the holiday had properly begun the moment we’d made that small, silly mistake.

Inside, the rooms were warm and simply furnished, the sort of space that invites you to kick off your shoes and not bother finding them again until morning. From the living-room window you could just catch a sliver of sea between the dunes, enough to remind you why you’d come. We unpacked in that half-hearted way you do on the first afternoon, more interested in exploring than in putting things away. A quick wander down to the beach showed footprints already disappearing under the tide, and the water looked colder than I’d expected, which was oddly reassuring.

Standing there with sand already in my trainers, I found myself thinking how rarely we arrive anywhere without at least one small drama. The wonky wing mirror would need sorting eventually, but for now it felt like part of the story, something we’d laugh about on the way home. Carreg Rhys didn’t need grand gestures or perfect arrivals; it just needed us to slow down, breathe the salt air, and remember that sometimes the best part of a holiday is the moment you finally stop rushing.