We’d barely made it off the A55 when the sat-nav decided we were going the scenic route, which is to say it sent us down a single-track lane that promptly turned into someone’s driveway. After a three-point turn that involved a wheelie bin and a very unimpressed cat, we finally pulled up outside Croeso, a tidy whitewashed cottage just a pebble’s throw from Cemaes Bay. The key was meant to be under the blue pot by the back door, but the blue pot had clearly gone on holiday too, so we were still wrestling with the lock when a voice called over the fence.

“Lost the plot already, have you?” It was Mrs Parry from next door, arms folded over her cardigan, giving us the once-over like we’d turned up for an interview. She produced the spare key from her apron pocket with the air of someone who’d been expecting this exact comedy for years. “They always forget to tell newcomers about the pot. Come in when you’re ready—there’s tea if you need it.”

We dumped our bags and wandered the short path to the beach, where the tide was out and the sand still held the morning chill. A man with a Jack Russell was throwing sticks into the shallows, and when the dog brought one back he nodded at us as though we’d been expected. “First time?” he asked, not waiting for an answer. “Don’t bother with wellies; the stones get everywhere. And mind the gulls—they’ve worked out how to unzip rucksacks.” He introduced himself as Dai, retired postman, part-time beach warden, full-time expert on which café did the best Welsh cakes. Before we could escape he’d already recommended the one just past the lifeboat station, “but only before eleven, mind, or the school run clears them out.”

Back at the cottage we were attempting to light the wood burner when Mrs Parry reappeared with a plate of bara brith and the news that the tide times were pinned to the fridge already. “You’ll want to walk round to the old harbour before sunset,” she said. “The seals sometimes pop up near the buoy if you’re quiet.” She lingered long enough to ask where we were from, then offered a gentle warning about the local seagulls that had apparently taken a liking to the red bucket and spade sets left on doorsteps. “They’ve got a union now,” she added, deadpan, before heading back to her garden.

Later, sitting on the low wall with a mug of tea that had gone cold, I watched a couple of teenagers skim stones while their grandad shouted distances like a sports commentator. It struck me how quickly the place had folded us into its small routines—the keys, the cake, the running commentary on wildlife crime—without asking for anything in return except that we keep the gate shut. The journey had started with a wrong turn and a bin; it felt fitting that everything since had been steered by locals who knew every shortcut, including the one that leads straight to a decent cuppa and a story you didn’t know you needed.