We set off from the ferry in good spirits, the sat-nav promising a straightforward half-hour potter along the coast road to Glan Towyn. Ten minutes later we were reversing into someone’s driveway because the road had suddenly narrowed to a single track and a tractor was bearing down on us like it had right of way and a deadline. My partner’s cheerful “left a bit, right a bit” commentary ended with us wedged against a drystone wall and the tractor driver leaning out, grinning, to ask if we were “the English lot who booked the little white cottage.” We weren’t sure whether to be flattered or alarmed that word had already travelled.

By the time we reached Glan Towyn the cottage felt almost familiar. A handwritten note on the door read, “Key under the blue pot—mind the cat, he thinks he owns the place.” The cat in question was already on the doorstep, tail high, as though conducting an inspection. While we unloaded the car, a woman in bright yellow wellies wandered over from the neighbouring garden. “You’ll be wanting milk,” she announced, handing over a half-litre carton still cold from her fridge. Before we could protest she’d introduced herself as Glenys, told us the best beach access was “just past the wonky stile, mind the sheep,” and disappeared again with a wave.

Later, unpacking in the kitchen, we heard a gentle tap at the open door. An older chap in a flat cap stood there holding a small bucket of cockles. “Thought you might like these for your tea—straight off the shore this morning. Name’s Dai. You from away, then?” We admitted we were, and that led to a ten-minute masterclass on the tides, which beaches were safe for paddling, and why the seagulls here were “cheekier than most.” He left with a promise to show us his favourite rock-pooling spot if the weather held.

That evening we wandered down to the beach, still glowing from the unexpected welcome. A couple walking their spaniel stopped to chat about the old lifeboat station and how the cottage used to be a fisherman’s bothy. They pointed out which pub did the best Welsh cakes on a Sunday and warned us, laughing, that the cat would probably invite himself in for breakfast. Back at Glan Towyn the sky was streaked pink, the kettle was on, and the cat was already on the sofa, looking thoroughly at home.

It struck me, while buttering toast the next morning and watching Glenys wave from her garden, how quickly strangers had folded us into the rhythm of the place. The journey mishap, the tractor, the wellies and cockles—all of it felt less like holiday small talk and more like an unplanned introduction to Anglesey itself.