We’d been on the road for hours, the A55 stretching out like it had a personal grudge against us, and by the time we finally turned off towards Menai Bridge the kids were half-asleep and I was running on lukewarm coffee and sheer stubbornness. The satnav kept insisting we were nearly there, which was its first lie of the afternoon, and then came the small but perfectly avoidable mishap: I took what I thought was a handy shortcut down a single-track lane, only to meet a tractor coming the other way and have to reverse half a mile with the wing mirror folded in like a sulky bat. By the time we pulled up outside Ty Chwarel, the sun was low and golden, the sort that makes everything look better than it probably is after that kind of drive.

The cottage sat just back from the little beach path, its stone walls catching the last of the light and the slate roof looking properly Welsh against the sky. We tumbled out stiffly, the boys already bolting towards the water before we’d even unlocked the door, and I found myself standing there with the keys in one hand and the lingering embarrassment of that tractor encounter still fresh. Inside it felt instantly welcoming—low ceilings, a wood burner ready for later, and that faint seaside smell of salt and warm stone that no amount of air freshener can fake. The kitchen was small but thoughtfully stocked with the basics, and someone had left a note about the best tide times scribbled on the back of an old envelope.

Stepping out onto the little patio, we could see the Strait glinting between the trees, the water calm enough that a few sailing boats were still drifting about. The boys came back sandy and triumphant within minutes, announcing they’d found “at least three good sticks” and asking if tea could be fish and chips from the village. I said yes without thinking, mostly because the idea of cooking after that journey felt like a punishment I hadn’t earned. We walked the short path down to the beach while there was still light, shoes off, the sand cool underfoot, and I caught myself smiling at nothing in particular—just the relief of finally arriving somewhere that didn’t involve motorways or reversing for tractors.

Later, with the windows open and the sound of waves carrying up from the shore, I sat with a cup of tea that had gone cold and thought about how easy it is to forget what a proper stretch of coast can do for you. The journey had been long and mildly ridiculous, but standing there watching the boys chase the last of the tide, it already felt like the right kind of ridiculous—the sort you laugh about straight away and tell people about for years.