We set off from the ferry with the satnav promising a straightforward half-hour to Tyn y Berth, but of course it led us straight into a farm track that ended at a gate and a very surprised sheep. After a five-point turn that involved more reversing than forward motion, we finally bumped down the single-track lane and pulled up outside the little whitewashed cottage, its garden already dotted with daisies and the sound of waves just audible over the hedge.

The first thing that struck me was how close the sea felt; not the big, showy sort of closeness you get at a resort, but the quiet, salty hush that drifts in on every breeze. We left the bags by the door and wandered out for what was meant to be a quick look at the beach, only to find ourselves veering left along a narrow footpath instead of right. Within minutes the path narrowed to a ribbon of grass between brambles, and suddenly we were standing on a tiny crescent of sand we hadn’t even known existed.

A weathered bench half-hidden by marram grass gave us the perfect spot to watch oystercatchers skittering along the tideline. We’d meant to unpack, but instead we stayed until the light turned that soft Anglesey gold, then followed another track that seemed to lead back toward the cottage yet somehow deposited us beside an old stone boathouse tucked into the rocks. Inside, a faded lifebelt still hung on a nail, and a pair of herring gulls regarded us as though we were the ones trespassing.

By the time we retraced our steps—now thoroughly lost but oddly content—the cottage windows were glowing and the kettle we’d left on the Aga had boiled itself dry. We laughed about it over fish and chips from the village, then spent the evening on the little patio listening to the sea and wondering how many other unnoticed corners this stretch of coast might be keeping to itself.