We set off from the mainland with the sun already threatening to pack it in, and by the time we crossed the Menai Strait the drizzle had decided to join us for the ride. I’d printed directions like it was 2009, which might explain why we ended up parked outside a farm gate two lanes too narrow, convinced The Mermaid was just “over that hedge.” It wasn’t. After a sheep gave us the once-over and a helpful postie pointed us back the way we’d come, we finally pulled up to the little white cottage tucked behind the dunes, the sea glinting like it had been waiting the whole time.

First impressions hit the moment the door swung open: that unmistakable seaside smell of salt and faintly damp towels, the sort that makes you want to kick your shoes off and never find them again. The kitchen was tiny but cheerful, with a wonky shelf already stocked with mismatched mugs and a note from the owner about the local honesty box for eggs. We dumped our bags, shook off the rain, and immediately started plotting what to eat.

Anglesey doesn’t do showy; it does proper portions and places that still know your name after one visit. That first evening we wandered the short lane to the village and found ourselves in a low-ceilinged pub where the menu was basically “whatever the boat brought in.” I ordered the haddock and chips without even glancing, and when it arrived the batter was so crisp it could have been used for roofing. My partner went for the lamb stew, which arrived steaming and came with bread that tasted like it had been baked while we ordered. We lingered longer than planned, mostly because the landlord kept topping up our glasses “to keep the damp out.”

Next morning the little market in the square had set up under striped awnings, and we filled a basket with cockles, fresh crab, and a loaf still warm from the oven. Back at The Mermaid we attempted what we grandly called a “seaside picnic” on the patio, which mostly involved me dropping half the crab down my front and then trying to pass it off as intentional. The honesty-box eggs went into an omelette that evening—slightly too brown at the edges, but we ate it anyway, washing it down with a bottle we’d grabbed from the pub on the way home.

By the third meal we’d stopped pretending we were chefs and just leaned into the local rhythm: cockles on toast for breakfast, a pasty from the bakery at lunch, and then back to the pub for their Wednesday pie night. Sitting there with gravy on my chin, watching the light fade over the water, I realised the cottage hadn’t just given us somewhere to sleep; it had quietly rearranged our days around the next decent meal. And somehow, between the wrong turns and the dropped crab, that felt exactly right.