We’d barely made it off the ferry when the sat-nav decided to send us on a scenic tour of every single roundabout between Holyhead and Amlwch. By the time we finally swung into the little lane that led to Pengarnedd, I was convinced we’d somehow crossed back into England. The cottage itself looked perfect though – a low, whitewashed place with a view straight over the dunes to the beach – and the first thing we did was dump the bags and head straight for the kitchen to see what we could rustle up from the bits we’d brought.

The fridge was empty, of course, but the little honesty box at the end of the lane had fresh eggs and some local cheese, so we threw together the world’s laziest omelette and ate it on the patio while the tide crept in. It felt very civilised until I realised I’d forgotten to pack any salt; the cheese was so mild we might as well have been eating warm air. Still, the sunset made up for it, and we promised ourselves a proper shop first thing.

Next morning we wandered into Amlwch and found the Saturday market already in full swing. Stalls groaned under piles of cockles, laverbread, and fat Welsh cakes still warm from the griddle. We bought far too much and lugged it back to Pengarnedd, where I announced I was going to “do something proper” with the cockles. Half an hour later the kitchen looked like a small explosion had occurred and the cockles were definitely chewier than intended. My partner kindly suggested we give the pub a go instead, so we strolled the five-minute path to The Ship, where the seafood chowder arrived in bowls the size of paddling pools and came with bread that actually tasted of something.

We lingered over a pint of the local ale, watching the last of the day-trippers head home, and it struck me how quickly the stress of the journey had slipped away once food entered the equation. Back at the cottage we made a half-hearted attempt at the Welsh cakes, burning one side and declaring them “artisan”. They still vanished before bedtime.

The next few days fell into an easy rhythm: a morning beach walk to work up an appetite, then deciding whether to cook or to wander down to the little café by the harbour for crab sandwiches. One evening we even managed a decent stir-fry using the market veg and some bacon from the village shop, though the smoke alarm had strong opinions about my timing. Each meal, successful or otherwise, seemed to anchor us more firmly in the place.

By the last night we’d stopped worrying about perfecting anything and simply enjoyed whatever ended up on the plate. Sitting on the sofa with the windows open to the sound of the waves, I realised the mishap-filled journey had done us a favour; without it we might never have slowed down enough to notice how good simple food can taste when you’re not rushing anywhere.