We’d been on the road for nearly five hours when the satnav cheerfully announced we’d arrived, only for us to discover we were actually parked outside the wrong Abbey Lodge entirely. A very patient woman in a dressing gown pointed us two streets down, and by the time we finally pulled up at the real one, the boot was half-open and our takeaway pasties had gone decidedly lukewarm. Still, the moment I stepped out and caught the first proper whiff of salt air, the irritation melted away.

The cottage sits just a short walk from Llandudno’s sweeping promenade, and even in the fading light it looked welcoming—neat white walls, a little slate roof, and a front door painted the exact shade of seaside blue you always hope these places will be. We fumbled with the key safe for a minute longer than strictly necessary, then stepped inside to the comforting smell of woodsmoke and fresh linen. Someone had left the heating on low, bless them, and the living room already felt like it had been waiting for us.

After we’d dumped the bags and rescued what was left of supper, we wandered straight out again. The tide was well out, leaving a vast stretch of damp sand that caught the last of the sunset in long pink streaks. We walked as far as the end of the pier without really meaning to, shoes in hand, the air cool enough to make us grateful for the jumpers we’d nearly left in the car. Back at the cottage the kettle went on, and we sat by the window watching the streetlights come on along the front. It felt oddly peaceful after the day’s small disasters.

What struck me most, though, was how quickly the journey stress slipped away once we were properly inside. The mishap with the wrong house had left me wound up and snappy, but the simple act of stepping onto that beach—barefoot, slightly ridiculous, with sand already between my toes—put everything back in proportion. Sometimes all it takes is a bit of wrong-turn comedy and a lungful of Welsh sea air to remind you why you bothered setting off in the first place.