We’d barely made it off the ferry at Holyhead when the satnav decided we were clearly the sort of people who needed a challenge. One wrong turn after another and we were suddenly trundling down a single-track lane that narrowed with every hedge, convinced we’d somehow ended up on a farm track. When the lane finally petered out at a five-bar gate, we sat there laughing, the boot still full of damp coats and slightly squashed pasties, until a local in a mud-splattered Land Rover reversed back to point us the right way. Ten minutes later we pulled up at Ysbryd Y Mynydd, its whitewashed walls glowing in the low afternoon light, and the sea already audible over the wall.

The cottage sat tucked just far enough from South Stack to feel private, yet close enough that the lighthouse beam would sweep across our bedroom ceiling once it got dark. We’d planned to unpack straight away, but the mishap had left us both restless, so we grabbed jackets and wandered down the narrow footpath that hugged the field edge. Within minutes the path dipped behind a low rise and opened onto a tiny, almost hidden cove we hadn’t noticed on any map—nothing but a crescent of dark sand, a few rock pools, and the sound of oystercatchers piping along the tideline. We spent the next hour poking about with sticks, turning over stones for tiny crabs, and feeling quietly pleased that our navigational incompetence had handed us this pocket-sized beach all to ourselves.

Later, following what we thought was a shortcut back, we ended up on another unmarked track that climbed gently between bracken and gorse. Halfway up we stopped to catch our breath and noticed a low stone wall half-buried in heather; beyond it lay the tumbled remains of an old lookout hut, its roof long gone but its view still commanding the whole sweep of the bay. We perched on the wall, sharing the last of the pasties while the sun slid towards the horizon, and I found myself thinking how often we chase the big, famous sights when the real magic seems to wait just behind the next wrong turn.

By the time we wandered back to the cottage the light had softened to that particular Welsh gold, and the windows glowed invitingly. Inside, the wood burner was already laid, and the kettle on the Rayburn seemed to know exactly what we needed. We sat on the sofa with mugs of tea, feet up, still chuckling about the gate and the helpful Land Rover, and agreed that getting properly lost on our first afternoon had been the best decision we’d made all day.