We set off from the ferry with the windows down and the promise of a proper Welsh summer ahead, only to discover, halfway along the coast road, that I’d packed the dog’s lead but forgotten the actual dog. By the time we’d turned back, collected a very unimpressed terrier, and finally pulled up at Trearddur View, the sun had already slipped behind a bank of cloud that looked determined to stay. Still, the cottage sat right where the map promised, a short hop from the sand, and the first sight of it—whitewashed walls, a little slate porch, and that view straight over the bay—made the detour feel almost worth it.

We dumped the bags, clipped the lead on (twice, to be sure), and headed straight out for what we told ourselves would be a gentle leg-stretcher along the coastal path. The tide was out far enough to let us wander the firm sand past the little row of beach huts, shoes in hand, the breeze just cool enough to feel refreshing. A mile or so on, the path climbed onto low cliffs dotted with thrift and the odd hardy gorse bush still showing yellow. We paused on a bench someone had kindly left at the perfect lookout spot, watching a pair of kayakers thread between the rocky islets that dot this stretch of shore.

Half an hour later the sky decided it had other ideas. A soft, insistent drizzle arrived without warning, the sort that doesn’t look dramatic until you’re properly soaked. We turned back sooner than planned, laughing at the damp dog now resembling a walking mop, and ducked into the little café by the car park for tea and Welsh cakes while we waited for the shower to pass. By the time we reached the cottage again the rain had eased, leaving everything smelling of salt and wet grass. We sat on the bench outside with steaming mugs, watching the clouds break into dramatic streaks of silver and letting the dog shake himself dry all over our feet.

That first afternoon set the tone for the rest of the stay: every morning we’d check the sky, pack waterproofs just in case, and set off along the same stretch of coast path, sometimes making it as far as the next cove before the weather nudged us home again. There was something oddly liberating about plans that could be rewritten by a passing cloud. We explored rock pools at low tide, collected a few bits of sea glass, and spent one gloriously sunny hour lying on the sand with paperbacks that never quite got finished. Each evening we returned to the cottage pleasantly tired, shoes sandy, and quietly grateful that the weather had kept us outside instead of letting us hide away indoors.

In the end it wasn’t the perfect blue-sky hikes we’d pictured, but the changeable Welsh coast had given us something better: proper time outdoors, small discoveries, and the reminder that sometimes the best adventures are the ones that don’t quite go to plan.