We’d barely made it out of the car when the April drizzle decided to turn into proper rain, and of course that’s when I dropped the keys straight down the drain grille outside the cottage. There they sat, glinting just out of reach while the wind whipped in off the bay and my partner tried not to laugh too loudly. Ten minutes later a neighbour appeared with a coat hanger and a torch, and we were finally inside, damp but triumphant, welcomed by the faint smell of woodsmoke from the log burner someone had kindly left ready.

The cottage itself felt like a proper April refuge: thick stone walls keeping the chill at bay, a cosy living room where the sofa practically invited you to curl up with a blanket, and a little kitchen stocked with enough mugs to cope with endless cups of tea. From the front window we could just catch glimpses of the beach between gusts of rain, the tide pulling back to reveal wide stretches of wet sand that looked almost silver under the low clouds. It wasn’t the postcard sunshine we’d half hoped for, but there was something honest about the season that made the indoors feel all the cosier.

That first afternoon we didn’t venture far. We walked the short stretch down to the promenade, hoods up, and watched families with dogs braving the weather, everyone moving a little quicker than usual. Back at the cottage we lit the fire, unpacked the shopping we’d grabbed in town—fresh Welsh cakes from a bakery that still had its Easter bunting up—and settled in with books and the sound of rain on the roof. The season seemed to slow everything down; there was no pressure to rush off to attractions or pack the day with plans. Instead we noticed small things: the way the light changed every half hour, how the gulls sounded different when the wind dropped, the comforting weight of an extra jumper.

By evening the rain had eased just enough for us to step outside again, and we stood in the small garden watching the last of the daylight fade over the water. It struck me then how often I chase perfect weather on holiday, as if sunshine is the only guarantee of a good time. Standing there in the cool, quiet air, I realised April had given us something gentler: permission to stay put, to enjoy the cottage itself rather than treating it as a base for constant outings. The mishap with the keys already felt like part of the story, not a disaster, and the damp start had somehow made the warmth inside even better.

We turned in early, the sea still audible through the open bedroom window, and I fell asleep thinking that sometimes the weather writes its own itinerary—and this time, I was quite happy to follow it.