I’d barely left the ferry when the satnav decided to have a proper sulk, sending me down a single-track lane that narrowed until the hedges were practically brushing both wing mirrors. By the time I spotted the sign for The Herun, I’d already taken two wrong turns and was muttering about Welsh place names that sound nothing like they’re spelled. Still, the moment the little white cottage came into view, tucked just behind the dunes outside Rhosneigr, every wrong turning felt worth it.

The first thing that struck me was how quiet it was. No traffic hum, just the soft rush of waves and the occasional gull giving me what sounded suspiciously like side-eye. I dragged my bags inside, kicked off my shoes, and immediately did what any sensible person would do: made a cup of tea and wandered straight back out to explore. The plan had been a gentle stroll along the beach path, but five minutes later I’d veered off onto a sandy track that wasn’t on any map I’d glanced at. Before I knew it, I was ankle-deep in marram grass, following what looked like a rabbit trail toward a low stone wall I hadn’t noticed from the road.

That accidental detour turned into the best part of the afternoon. The wall led to a narrow gap in the dunes, and suddenly I was standing in a tiny cove that felt completely hidden from the main beach. A couple of locals were quietly collecting driftwood, and one of them nodded as if finding strangers here was perfectly normal. I spent the next hour pottering about, finding bits of sea glass and wondering how many people drive straight past without ever realising the place exists.

Later, still mildly lost, I followed another unmarked path that skirted the edge of a small field and ended at an old lookout point. From there I could see the curve of the coastline stretching away, with nothing but sky and water between me and the horizon. It felt like the sort of spot you’re only meant to discover by accident, and I stood there longer than I meant to, letting the wind do its best to untidy my hair.

By the time I wandered back to The Herun, the sun was starting to dip and the cottage windows glowed warmly against the dunes. I made another cup of tea—this time without the earlier panic—and sat on the little bench outside, replaying the afternoon’s unplanned route in my head. It struck me, not for the first time, how often the best bits of a holiday happen when you stop trying to follow the plan and just let yourself get properly lost instead.