We’d barely pulled off the A55 when the satnav decided to send us on a scenic detour through half of Conwy’s back lanes, and by the time we finally spotted the little wooden sign for Curzon Heights I was convinced we’d driven in circles. The cottage sat just above the curve of the beach, its whitewashed walls catching the last of the late-autumn light, and the moment we stepped out the car a sharp, salty gust whipped straight off the water and straight up my jumper. I’d packed for “crisp seaside walks,” but the wind had other ideas and promptly sent my favourite bobble hat tumbling across the gravel like a wayward seagull.

Inside, the heating was already on—thank goodness—and the big front window framed a pewter-coloured sea that looked far more dramatic than the sunny pictures on the website. October had stripped the gardens of their summer colour, leaving only a few brave roses and the odd stubborn hydrangea head nodding in the breeze, yet somehow the muted palette made the place feel cosier. We dropped our bags, flicked the kettle on, and watched a small flock of oystercatchers skitter along the tideline while steam fogged the glass.

Later, wrapped in borrowed blankets from the sofa, we wandered the short path down to the shingle. The tide was out, revealing wet sand that reflected the low clouds like a dull mirror, and every few minutes another icy gust reminded us why most of the beach huts were already shuttered for the season. Still, there was something oddly peaceful about having the stretch almost to ourselves; no queues for ice cream, no children’s laughter carrying on the air, just the rhythmic hush of waves and the occasional bark of a dog being walked by a bundled-up local.

Back at the cottage the little wood burner took the edge off the chill, and we sat with mugs of tea watching the sky shift from slate to charcoal. I caught myself thinking how rarely we slow down like this—how a cancelled plan or a rogue gust of wind can turn an ordinary weekend into something quietly memorable. The season had stripped away the usual distractions, leaving just the cottage, the sea, and the sense that we’d arrived exactly when we were meant to.