I’d only been in the car for about twenty minutes after leaving the M4 when the satnav decided we needed a “quicker route” and sent us down a lane so narrow the hedges brushed both wing mirrors. We were still laughing about it when we spotted the sign for Coeden Bach and pulled into the little gravel turning. The cottage sat just back from the dunes, and the smell of salt and warm grass hit us the second we opened the doors.

First job was unpacking the cool bag we’d filled at the Saturday market in Burry Port—fresh cockles, a couple of fat fillets of hake, new potatoes, and a loaf still warm from the baker. We carried everything straight into the little kitchen and got the kettle on while we worked out where everything lived. Within half an hour we had a pan of cockles steaming with a knob of butter and a shake of pepper, and we ate them straight from the shells at the kitchen table, windows open so we could hear the waves.

That first evening we wandered the short path to the beach and then doubled back towards the village for a pint. The pub was busy with locals and a few other families who’d clearly had the same idea. We ordered bowls of scampi and chips that arrived sizzling hot, and we sat outside until the midges got the better of us. Back at the cottage we made a half-hearted attempt at pudding—sliced strawberries over the last of the market cream—but mostly we just sat on the sofa with mugs of tea, pleasantly full and slightly sandy.

The next morning we woke to sunlight slanting across the bedroom floor and the sound of gulls. Breakfast was simple: toast and the remains of the cockles mixed into scrambled eggs, eaten on the little patio while we planned the day. We’d read about a farm shop a couple of miles inland, so we drove over and came back with a wedge of Caerphilly, some leeks, and a packet of Welsh cakes still warm in their paper bag.

Lunch became an experiment. I tried turning the leeks into a quick soup while my partner attempted to grill the hake on the tiny barbecue we’d found in the shed. The fish was perfect; the soup was, shall we say, enthusiastic. We ate it anyway, sitting on the low wall outside, watching the tide come in and admitting that sometimes the simplest thing—bread, cheese, and a view—is all you really need.

By late afternoon we were peckish again, so we walked along the coastal path to the next little cluster of houses where a café served crab sandwiches that tasted of nothing but fresh crab and good butter. We lingered over a pot of tea until the shadows lengthened, then wandered slowly back, stopping every few minutes to watch the surfers.

That night we kept it deliberately low-key: jacket potatoes from the oven, topped with the rest of the Caerphilly and a tin of beans. We ate them on our laps in front of the telly, half-watching an old film and half-listening to the wind picking up outside. At some point I realised I’d spent the whole day either thinking about the next meal or clearing up from the last one, and it struck me how rare it is to live so completely inside the rhythm of simple food and easy company.

We left the next morning with sand in the car and a list of things we still wanted to try—maybe the fish and chips from the van near the car park, or another crack at that soup—but already the memory of that first mishap on the lane felt like part of the welcome.