We’d barely pulled up outside 51 Trinity Avenue when the satnav decided we were already at the beach and cheerfully announced we’d arrived. Only we hadn’t; we’d stopped two streets too soon, right in front of a bewildered woman watering her begonias. After a quick U-turn and some muttered apologies, we finally found the little whitewashed cottage tucked behind a neat privet hedge, barely a five-minute wander from the sand.

The key was under the mat as promised, and the moment the door swung open we were hit by that unmistakable seaside smell of salt and faint woodsmoke. Inside it felt instantly homely: a bright front room with squashy sofas facing a bay window that framed the pier like a picture postcard. We dumped our bags, kicked off sandy shoes we hadn’t even worn yet, and set out for what we told ourselves would be “just a quick look at the sea.”

Of course we got gloriously lost. Instead of turning left towards the prom, we veered right along Trinity Avenue and kept going until the pavements narrowed into a lane bordered by high garden walls. A handwritten sign pointing to “Hidden Path” caught our eye, so naturally we followed it. Five minutes later we were standing at the top of a steep, zig-zag track that dropped between brambly banks straight onto a pocket-sized stretch of shingle we’d never noticed on any map.

No ice-cream vans, no kiss-me-quick hats, just the soft hush of waves and a driftwood bench someone had clearly dragged there years ago. We sat for a while, shoes off, toes in the cool water, listening to oystercatchers and the distant squeal of kids on the main beach. It felt like we’d stumbled on Llandudno’s best-kept secret without even trying.

Further along the same hidden track we discovered a tiny honesty-box café run from a shed in someone’s back garden. Fresh Welsh cakes still warm from the griddle sat beside a honesty jar and a scribbled note: “Gone crabbing—pay what you like.” We bought two, wandered back down to our secret shingle, and ate them watching the tide creep in.

By the time we wandered, slightly sticky-fingered, back to 51 Trinity Avenue the light had turned that soft gold you only seem to get on the north Wales coast. The cottage’s little yard caught the last of the sun, and we sat on the wooden bench with mugs of tea, shoes still sandy, feeling gloriously pleased with ourselves for getting lost on purpose.

It struck me then how often we plan every hour of a holiday only to find the best bits happen when the plan falls apart. That evening, with the windows open and the sound of the sea drifting in, I realised the real welcome at 51 Trinity Avenue wasn’t the spotless kitchen or the comfortable beds; it was the lane that led us somewhere we weren’t supposed to be, and the quiet little beach that made us forget we’d meant to be anywhere else.