We’d been on the road for hours, the kind of journey where the kids start counting every sheep and you begin negotiating with the satnav like it owes you money. By the time we finally turned off towards Cemaes Bay the rain had eased, but the wind was still having a proper go at the hedges. I was so busy pointing out the first glimpse of sea that I completely missed the turning for Melody and ended up halfway up someone’s gravel drive before realising my mistake. We reversed out with the sort of sheepish wave that only works when the owners aren’t actually watching, then found the little lane we should have taken in the first place.

The cottage itself looked exactly as it had in the photos, only smaller in the best way, tucked just back from the dunes with a wooden gate that squeaked like it was greeting us. The key was waiting in the lockbox exactly where the host had said, and stepping inside felt like walking into someone else’s Saturday morning: a kettle already filled, a loaf of bread on the counter, and that faint seaside smell of salt and slightly damp towels. The living room had big windows facing the water, and even with the grey sky the view made everything feel lighter.

We dumped the bags and headed straight out again, because after four hours in the car the beach was calling louder than the kettle. The path from the back garden led straight onto the sand, which was empty except for a couple walking their dog and a toddler determinedly filling a bucket with nothing in particular. The tide was out far enough to leave wide stretches of damp sand perfect for skimming stones, and the boys immediately started a competition that involved far more shouting than actual success. I stood there with my hands in my pockets, watching them race the waves and feeling that familiar mix of relief and mild panic that always hits on the first proper day away: relief that we’d made it, panic that I’d somehow left the iron on at home even though I hadn’t used it in weeks.

Back at the cottage the little kitchen proved perfectly sized for two adults trying to unpack food while three children demanded to know when dinner was happening. We ended up eating cheese sandwiches on the sofa with the doors open, listening to the gulls and the occasional burst of laughter from the beach path. The light was already starting to fade, turning the sea that particular Welsh grey-blue that makes everything look softer. I caught myself wondering whether we’d actually manage to switch off properly this week or whether we’d just bring our usual chaos with us, then decided the question could wait until morning. For now it was enough to be here, slightly windswept, slightly sandy, and already half in love with the place.