We’d barely turned off the A55 when the satnav decided to send us down a lane that narrowed with every bend, and before I knew it the wing mirror was kissing a hedge. “Brilliant start,” I muttered, while my other half tried not to laugh. By the time we pulled up outside Ty Gwennol the cottage looked exactly like the photos: whitewashed walls, slate roof, and that blue front door promising a kettle and biscuits. We were still wrestling bags from the boot when a voice called over the low wall.

“Lost your wing mirror, have you?” It was Mrs Prys from next door, secateurs in one hand and a spaniel at her feet. She introduced herself with a firm handshake and a quick once-over of our mud-splattered car. “You’ll be needing a cuppa after that. Pop round when you’ve unpacked.” Ten minutes later we were sat in her kitchen, steam rising from mismatched mugs, while she told us how the lane used to be wide enough for a milk float “until that Tesco delivery van tried it in 2017.”

We’d only just got back to Ty Gwennol when there was a knock at the door. It was Gareth, who ran the little beach café a short stroll down the track. He’d spotted our number plate and wanted to check we weren’t the family who’d left a wetsuit on the roof last summer. Over a doorstep slice of bara brith he explained which tide times were best for a lazy paddle and which were best avoided “unless you like swimming with your sandwiches.” His stories came with hand gestures so wide he nearly knocked a mug off the table.

Later, while we were trying to light the wood burner, the landlord’s son, young Ifan, wandered in to drop off extra logs. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen, but he had the local knack for making visitors feel slightly incompetent in the nicest possible way. “You’ve got the vent closed,” he said kindly, reaching past me. As the flames caught he asked whether we’d noticed the heron that sometimes perched on the old mooring post at dusk. We hadn’t, but after that we found ourselves checking every evening.

By the second morning the lane didn’t feel so narrow. Mrs Prys waved from her garden as we headed out for milk, and Gareth shouted across the sand that the café was doing Welsh cakes if we fancied them warm. Even the satnav seemed less sarcastic on the way back. Standing at the kitchen window with a mug of tea, watching the tide slip in, I caught myself wondering whether the real charm of Ty Gwennol wasn’t the cottage at all, but the way three conversations on arrival had already made the place feel less like a holiday let and more like somewhere we might actually be remembered when we left.