We’d barely made it off the ferry at Holyhead when the satnav decided we were going the scenic route. Three wrong turns and a very patient queue of locals later, we finally crunched up the gravel drive of The Bay just as the last of the light was fading. The children were already unbuckling before the handbrake was on, shouting about the sea they could smell but not yet see.

The cottage itself looked exactly as the photos had promised: whitewashed walls, a slate roof that had clearly weathered a few winters, and a little wooden gate that led straight onto the coastal path. We tumbled out with bags and beach towels, only for me to discover I’d left the key safe in the car’s cup holder—on the ferry. A quick dash back to the terminal sorted it, but not before the kids had turned the five-minute wait into an impromptu game of who could spot the most seagulls. By the time we stepped inside, the kettle was already on and the promise of fish and chips from the village shop felt like the best idea we’d had all day.

First impressions were of space and calm. The living room opened straight onto a little patio where someone had left two stripy deckchairs angled toward the water. Beyond the low wall the beach stretched in both directions, the tide just beginning to turn. We didn’t unpack properly; instead we grabbed jumpers and headed out while there was still enough light to see the sand. The boys raced ahead, shoes in hand, while my partner and I followed at a more dignified pace, pointing out the little coves and the old stone jetty that looked perfect for crabbing later in the week.

Back at the cottage the heating had kicked in and the fridge was stocked with the basics we’d ordered ahead. We ate supper at the kitchen table with the door open, listening to the occasional car on the road and the steady hush of waves. It struck me, somewhere between the second cup of tea and the children’s bedtime story, how rarely we manage to slow down like this. The journey had been a gentle reminder that the best bits often start with small disasters—lost keys, wrong turns, seagulls stealing chips—and end with nothing more complicated than sand between your toes and a cottage that already feels a little bit like home.