We’d barely made it off the A55 when the satnav decided we were better off in a field. One wrong turn down a single-track lane and there we were, bonnet-deep in a hedge with a very unimpressed sheep staring at us through the windscreen. By the time we’d reversed out and found the right turning for Ystabl Stable, I was already laughing at how seriously I’d taken the “short drive from the station” line on the booking.

The cottage sits just back from the beach road in Abergele, a whitewashed little place with a slate roof and a bench by the door that seemed to have our names on it. We dumped the bags, kicked off our shoes, and that was pretty much the plan sorted. The sun was out, the kettle was on, and the sea was only a five-minute wander across the dunes if we ever felt the need to move.

We didn’t, not much. The first afternoon was spent entirely in the garden, me with a dog-eared paperback and my partner half-asleep in the deckchair, both of us listening to the gulls and the occasional burst of Welsh on the footpath. Every so often one of us would mutter something about “just popping down to the beach for a paddle,” but neither of us ever quite made it past the gate. The tide was out anyway, leaving a vast stretch of wet sand that looked like it could wait until tomorrow.

By the second morning we’d perfected the art of doing very little. Breakfast happened whenever the sun reached the kitchen table; lunch was whatever we’d remembered to bring from the little shop in town. We took books onto the beach once, spread an old towel, and read until the words started to blur. The only real effort involved was deciding whether to roll onto our fronts or stay where we were. Even the seagulls seemed to approve of the pace.

What struck me, watching the light slide across the water, was how rarely I let a day unfold without a list. Here the list was wonderfully short: sunscreen, another chapter, maybe an ice cream from the van that trundles along the promenade at four. Everything else could keep. The cottage helped, of course—its windows open to the breeze, the little porch perfect for drying sandy feet—but mostly it was permission we’d given ourselves, and it felt surprisingly radical.

On our last evening we finally managed the full beach walk, shoes in hand, the sand still warm underfoot. We didn’t go far, just far enough to watch the sun slip behind the headland and feel the air cool. Walking back, I realised the mishap on the lane had set the tone after all: slow down, laugh at the detour, and let the rest of the day arrive in its own time.