We set off from the train station with the sort of optimism that only comes from having left the to-do list at home, but the satnav had other ideas and steered us down a lane so narrow the wing mirrors kissed the hedges. By the time we reached Cabin Hill we were both laughing, slightly red-faced, and convinced the satnav was sulking. The cottage sat just above the sweep of Llandudno’s quieter western shore, its pale wooden steps already warm underfoot and the sea glinting beyond the low garden wall. We dropped the bags, opened every window, and simply stood for a minute, listening to gulls and the faint hush of waves.

The first afternoon set the tone for the whole stay. We made tea in mismatched mugs, carried the chairs onto the little deck, and watched the tide creep in while a gentle breeze lifted the pages of the book I’d meant to start weeks ago. The mishap with the lane had somehow loosened something; neither of us reached for phones or plans. Instead we wandered the short path to the beach, shoes in hand, and spent an hour collecting the odd smooth stone and laughing at a determined terrier trying to outrun the surf. Back at the cottage the only urgent decision was whether to sit in sun or shade, and we compromised by moving the chairs twice.

Evenings drifted by in the same unhurried way. We grilled simple things on the little barbecue, ate with plates balanced on knees, and let the sky turn peach then violet without switching on a single lamp until it was properly dark. One morning I woke early, padded outside with coffee, and realised I couldn’t remember the last time I’d watched the sun climb over the Great Orme without checking the time. The cottage made it easy to keep doing very little; its windows framed the beach like a slow-moving postcard, and the garden caught enough warmth that jumpers stayed folded on the sofa.

By the third day the rhythm felt natural. We read whole chapters without guilt, dozed in the striped shade of the parasol, and only ventured as far as the kiosk at the end of the promenade for ice creams that dripped down our wrists before we could finish them. The funny detour on arrival seemed weeks ago; what stayed with me was how quickly the days had softened into one another. Sitting there with sand still between my toes, I caught myself wondering why we so often treat rest like something that needs scheduling, when all it really took was a narrow lane, an open window, and the simple decision to stay put.