We’d only been on the road from the ferry for half an hour when the satnav decided to send us down a lane so narrow the wing mirrors practically kissed the hedges. I was still laughing about it when we finally pulled up outside Pwyll Cottage, the little stone place tucked just off the lane to Red Wharf Bay. The key was waiting in the lockbox exactly as promised, but by then the kids had already tumbled out and were racing across the grass to peer over the low wall at the stretch of sand below.

First impressions were exactly what you hope for on a family break: a tidy garden with a picnic table already set, a kettle that boiled in seconds, and that faint, comforting smell of woodsmoke from the log burner even though it was a mild evening. We dumped bags in the bedrooms—two proper doubles upstairs and a snug twin at the back—then wandered straight out again because the tide was out and the beach was calling.

Walking down the short path, shoes in hand, I felt the first proper loosening of the week. The sand was still warm from the day, the sea flat and glassy, and the only sound was the occasional cry of an oystercatcher. We collected a few shells, skimmed stones until the light started to fade, then trudged back up for fish and chips from the van that parks near the car park most evenings. Sitting at the garden table with paper parcels and a bottle of squash, none of us said much; we were too busy watching the sky turn pink over the bay.

Later, once the children were in bed, I stood in the doorway with a cup of tea and realised how little we’d actually done and how much that suited us. No grand plans, just the cottage, the beach, and the quiet rhythm of Anglesey evenings.