We’d barely left the M4 when the satnav decided to send us on a scenic detour through half of Swansea, and by the time we finally turned onto the narrow lane that leads down to the cottage I was convinced we’d taken a wrong turning somewhere near the bypass. The satnav, of course, insisted we’d arrived, which was helpful until we realised the postcode covered three different houses and ours was the one tucked behind a hedge that looked more like an afterthought than a driveway.

We reversed twice, scraped a wing mirror on a rosemary bush, and finally crunched to a stop on the gravel. The cottage itself was smaller than the photos suggested, but in that reassuring way that means everything is within arm’s reach and you can’t possibly lose anyone. A low stone wall separated the front path from the lane, and beyond it the sea was already visible between rooftops, a slice of grey-blue that made the children shout before they’d even unbuckled their seatbelts.

Inside, the place smelled faintly of woodsmoke and whatever the last guests had cooked, and the kitchen table was just big enough for four plates and a board game. We left the bags where they landed and wandered straight out again, shoes kicked off at the door. The beach was barely five minutes down a sandy track that wound between dunes and the backs of other cottages, and the tide was out far enough to leave wide, firm sand perfect for small feet and badly thrown frisbees.

We spent the first afternoon doing almost nothing at all. The children collected bits of driftwood and shells that they swore were treasure, while I sat on a towel that kept trying to blow away and pretended to read the same page of my book. Every so often a dog would trot past with its owner trailing behind, and we’d exchange the sort of nod that says we’re all here for the same reason and none of us feels the need to explain it.

Back at the cottage the evening light came in low through the sitting-room window, catching the dust motes and making the room feel warmer than it was. We cooked something simple on the little electric hob, ate it at the table with the door propped open, and listened to the occasional car pass on the lane. It struck me, while rinsing plates in the tiny sink, how rarely we manage to arrive somewhere and immediately stop rushing. Usually there’s an itinerary or at least a vague plan; here the only decision was whether to walk back down to the beach before it got properly dark or stay put and watch the sky change colour from the sofa. We chose the sofa, and nobody minded.