We’d been on the road for hours, the sort of journey where the kids start asking if we’re nearly there before we’ve even left the outskirts of Manchester. By the time the Menai Strait came into view, the satnav was cheerfully announcing we’d arrived, yet the road signs seemed to have other ideas. One wrong turn down a lane that narrowed to a single track later, and we were nose-to-nose with a rather unimpressed sheep. After a polite standoff and some careful reversing, we finally pulled up outside Dolwyn, a tidy little cottage tucked just back from the beach near Menai Bridge.

The first thing that struck me was the quiet. Not the dramatic, windswept silence you get on headlands, but a soft, salt-tinged hush broken only by the occasional gull and the distant wash of waves. We tumbled out stiff-legged, the children immediately claiming the garden as their own, while I fumbled with the key safe and wondered aloud whether I’d packed the corkscrew. Inside, everything felt welcoming in that unshowy way that makes you relax without quite realising it. The living room caught the last of the afternoon light, and through the window we could just make out the curve of the shore, already dotted with a few dog-walkers and a couple of paddleboarders drifting lazily past.

After the long drive, the simple act of unpacking felt oddly ceremonial. I kept finding sand in places I hadn’t even been yet, a reminder that Anglesey has its own quiet way of claiming you. We wandered down to the beach before supper, shoes in hand, the sand cool underfoot and the tide just beginning to turn. The children collected shells with the seriousness of archaeologists, while my partner and I stood watching the Strait catch the last pink streaks of sunset. It was the sort of view that makes you forget the traffic on the A55 and the sheep-related detour entirely.

Back at the cottage, we grilled a few sausages on the little patio and ate them straight from the pan, too hungry to bother with plates. Later, once the kids were asleep, I sat by the window with a glass of wine and found myself thinking how rarely we slow down enough to notice the small things: the way the light changes on the water, the faint smell of seaweed on the breeze, the fact that our arrival mishap already felt like part of the story rather than an inconvenience. Dolwyn hadn’t done anything flashy to win us over; it had simply been there, steady and unpretentious, waiting for us to catch up with ourselves.