We’d barely pulled off the A55 when the satnav decided Menai Manor didn’t exist, so we spent ten minutes circling Menai Bridge like confused seagulls until we spotted the slate sign half-hidden by a hydrangea. The funny part was that our “short cut” ended with the boot wedged against a low stone wall, the dog already halfway out and wagging like we’d planned the whole thing. By the time we wrestled the cases up the short gravel drive, the cottage felt like it had been waiting for us all morning—whitewashed walls, wide windows, and that unmistakable tang of salt on the breeze.

Inside, everything smelled of fresh linen and faintly of the sea. We dumped our bags, made tea in mismatched mugs, and stood at the kitchen window watching the Strait glitter. It was one of those rare Welsh days when the sky is properly blue and the air feels almost Mediterranean, so we decided to test the coastal path straight away. Ten minutes later we were on the little track behind the garden, trainers crunching on dry grass, heading towards Beaumaris with nothing but a bottle of water and an optimistic packet of biscuits.

The path hugs the low cliffs, dipping in and out of gorse and hawthorn, and every so often you catch a flash of white sail on the water below. We kept stopping to read the little plaques about wading birds, then realised we’d walked further than planned and the sun was properly hot on our shoulders. A gentle breeze kept things comfortable, though, and we sat on a bench overlooking the bay, sharing the slightly melted biscuits while a cormorant dried its wings on a buoy. I found myself thinking how rarely we slow down like this—just walking, chatting about nothing, letting the tide set the pace.

We’d meant to carry on all the way to the castle, but halfway there the clouds rolled in like they’d been waiting behind Anglesey’s shoulder. Within minutes the blue sky turned pewter and a soft drizzle started, the sort that soaks you gradually rather than all at once. We turned back, laughing at our optimism, and spent the afternoon instead on the sheltered stretch of beach below the house, hunting for tiny cowrie shells and watching a family of kayakers slide past. The rain never got heavy, just enough to cool the air and leave everything smelling green.

By evening the sky had cleared again, and we cooked with the doors wide open, listening to the gulls and the faint clink of rigging from the moorings. Sitting on the little terrace with a glass of wine, I caught myself reflecting on how the weather had gently rearranged our day without ever spoiling it. The walk we didn’t finish felt like a promise for tomorrow, and the cottage, with its warm lamplight and creaky floorboards, already felt like ours.