We set off from the mainland in a hopeful drizzle, the sort that promises to clear by the time you reach the Menai Strait. It didn’t. By the time we turned onto the single-track lane that leads to Meadow View, the wipers were on double speed and the satnav had given up trying to pronounce Llanfair-Mathafarn-Eithaf. I was still laughing at my own pronunciation when the lane narrowed to a hedge-lined tunnel and a rogue pheasant shot out, forcing an emergency stop that sent the shopping bag flying. A carton of milk now decorated the passenger footwell, and my partner’s only comment was a resigned “well, that’s the holiday started.”

Pulling up outside the cottage, though, the rain eased just enough for us to see the low stone wall and the stretch of meadow sloping towards the dunes. It was late September, that soft shoulder season when Anglesey seems to exhale after the summer rush. The grass had turned a tired green, and the blackberries along the lane were fat and almost over. We stepped inside to the smell of woodsmoke from the previous guests and the faint tang of salt through the open window. The owners had left a note about the boiler and a box of Welsh cakes; both felt like small mercies after the journey.

We unpacked in stages, pausing every few minutes to watch the light change over the fields. By late afternoon the clouds had thinned to a pale wash, and we wandered the short path to the beach at Benllech, five minutes on foot if you didn’t stop to pick blackberries. The tide was out, leaving a wide arc of damp sand that reflected the sky like a muted mirror. A few dog-walkers passed, their laughter carrying on the breeze, but otherwise it was just us and the occasional oystercatcher. We walked until our shoes were soaked, then turned back when the air cooled sharply.

Back at the cottage the heating clicked on with a friendly clunk, and we cooked a simple tea while the windows steamed. Sitting at the little table, I found myself thinking how rarely we manage to arrive anywhere without a minor disaster, and how the disasters somehow make the place feel more ours. The season helped; the quiet roads, the empty beach, the sense that everything was winding down rather than gearing up. It made the small rooms feel cosier and the view more generous.

That first evening we left the curtains open and watched the last of the light leak from the sky. A single light on the distant headland blinked on, then another. We didn’t need a plan yet. The milk-stained car could wait until morning.