We’d barely made it off the ferry when the satnav decided to play silly beggars and sent us down a single-track lane that ended in someone’s driveway. After a three-point turn that involved more reversing than forward motion and an apologetic wave to the farmer whose gate we’d blocked, we finally trundled into the little car park at Tregynrig Bach. The cottage sat just back from the dunes, its whitewashed walls catching the late sun, and the smell of salt and warm grass hit us the moment we opened the car doors.

Inside, the kitchen was small but perfectly kitted out for exactly what we’d promised ourselves: proper holiday cooking. We’d stopped at the little Spar in Cemaes on the way and come away with thick Welsh pork sausages, a wedge of Caerphilly, and a crusty loaf that was already half gone by the time we unpacked. I set about making the world’s most ambitious fry-up while my partner claimed the best armchair with a view of the sea. The sausages spat happily, the kettle whistled, and everything felt gloriously uncomplicated until I realised I’d forgotten to buy eggs.

We wandered down to the beach anyway, shoes off, toes in the cool sand, and decided the nearest pub would solve our breakfast problem. The Ship in Cemaes Bay was only a short stroll along the coastal path, and their all-day menu rescued us with a plate of laverbread cakes and bacon that tasted like it had been invented for exactly this kind of morning. We lingered over coffee, watching fishing boats bob, then picked up fresh cockles from the little stall by the harbour for later.

Back at the cottage the afternoon sun poured through the kitchen window, so we tried our hand at a proper Welsh rarebit. The cheese mixture bubbled under the grill without incident, though I did manage to singe the edge of the tea towel when I reached for the plates. We ate it outside on the little patio, the sound of waves just audible over the gulls, and both agreed it was the best thing we’d made all year.

By evening we were ready for something heartier, so we drove the five minutes to the pub in Llanbadrig for steak-and-ale pie and chips that arrived steaming and generous. The landlord’s dog wandered over for scraps and we happily obliged, feeling very much part of the furniture after only one day.

Later, back at Tregynrig Bach, we sat with mugs of tea and the last of the Caerphilly, watching the light fade over the water. I caught myself thinking how rarely we slow down like this at home, how easy it is to forget that a good meal and a quiet view can feel like the whole point of a holiday.