We’d barely turned off the A5025 when the satnav decided to send us down a single-track lane that narrowed with every bend, until the car was practically brushing the hedgerows. My partner kept insisting it was “definitely a shortcut,” while I clutched the booking confirmation like it might magically widen the road. By the time we pulled up outside Llanbadrig Coastal Escapes, we were both laughing at how close we’d come to abandoning the car and walking the last bit with our bags.

The cottage sat just a short stroll from the beach path, its whitewashed walls glowing in the late-afternoon sun. We tumbled out, stretched, and immediately felt the sea air loosen something in our shoulders we hadn’t realised was tight. Inside, everything felt ready for exactly the sort of holiday we’d promised ourselves: a kettle already filled, a stack of board games on the sideboard, and a sofa that looked as though it had been sat on by people who knew how to do nothing properly.

That first evening we didn’t even unpack properly. We made tea, carried the mugs down to the sand, and simply watched the tide creep in while the sun slipped behind the headland. The mishap on the lane already felt like part of the story rather than a hassle; it had forced us to arrive a little slower, a little more aware of where we actually were.

The next morning set the pattern for the rest of the stay. We woke to the sound of gulls and the faint rattle of a tractor in a distant field, made toast, and carried breakfast outside to the little patio table. There was no rush to be anywhere. We read the papers we’d brought, dozed in the deckchairs, and occasionally wandered the few hundred metres to the beach when the sun grew too warm. The sand was warm underfoot, scattered with shells and the occasional bit of driftwood, and we spent long stretches just sitting, shoes off, toes buried, letting conversations drift as slowly as the waves.

One afternoon I caught myself reaching for my phone out of habit, then put it straight back down again. There was nothing that needed checking. The only schedule was the tide times printed on a scrap of paper by the kettle, and even that felt more like a gentle suggestion than a deadline. We walked the short stretch of coast path towards the old church at Llanbadrig when we felt like moving, then turned back when the breeze picked up, perfectly content to return to the cottage and its view of open water.

By the final morning, the lane mishap had become our private joke whenever we mentioned getting home. We packed slowly, leaving the windows open so the sea air could linger a little longer. As we drove away, properly this time, I realised the best part of the trip hadn’t been any grand plan or day trip, but the simple luxury of having nowhere else to be and nothing much to do except watch the light change over the beach.