We’d barely made it off the A55 when the sat-nav decided to have its own little holiday. One wrong turn near Valley and we were suddenly pottering down a single-track lane that narrowed with every hedge, the sat-nav cheerfully insisting we’d “arrived” in someone’s back garden. By the time we reversed into a passing place and found Pencraig again, we were both laughing and slightly pink in the cheeks, but the cottage’s whitewashed walls and slate roof looked so welcoming that the detour already felt like part of the fun.

First impressions were exactly what you hope for from a beach cottage on Anglesey: a low garden wall, a couple of deckchairs already catching the last of the afternoon sun, and the soft hush of waves just beyond the dunes. Inside, the kitchen smelled faintly of toast from whoever had stayed before us, and the living room window framed a slice of Trearddur Bay so blue it looked Photoshopped. We dumped our bags, made a quick cuppa, and stepped straight back out again—because after that journey, fresh air felt essential.

We meant to follow the coastal path towards the main beach, but a wooden sign half-hidden by brambles caught my eye and we turned inland instead. Five minutes later we were on a narrow track that wound between stone walls and sheep fields, the sea nowhere in sight. Every so often the track dipped into a hollow where the wind dropped and the air felt warmer, almost secret. We kept expecting it to loop back, but it just kept going, past an old stone barn with a tin roof and a field gate that opened onto nothing but sky and gorse.

Eventually the path petered out beside a tiny cove we’d never heard of—more rock than sand, with a single fishing boat pulled up on the shingle. A heron stood motionless at the water’s edge, and the only sound was the gentle clink of shells shifting with each wave. We sat on a flat boulder, shared the slightly squashed flapjacks we’d bought at the petrol station, and agreed this accidental detour had already beaten any planned itinerary.

On the way back we took another wrong turning and discovered a freshwater stream trickling between blackthorn bushes, the banks dotted with primroses even in late spring. We followed it for a while, shoes in hand, feet cooled by the water, until it disappeared under a low stone bridge. By then the light was softening and our stomachs were rumbling, so we retraced our steps to Pencraig, slightly muddier and thoroughly content.

That evening, watching the last ferries cross the bay from the cottage window, I found myself thinking how often the best bits of a holiday happen when nothing goes according to plan. We’d set out to reach the beach and ended up somewhere quieter, wilder, and entirely ours. Anglesey, it seemed, had its own gentle way of nudging you off course—and I was already looking forward to getting lost again tomorrow.