We’d barely made it past the toll bridge when the sat-nav decided we were in Rhyl instead of Kinmel Bay, so we spent a cheerful ten minutes going round the same roundabout twice. By the time we pulled up outside Golden Sands, the sun was already high and the kettle was calling. The little white cottage sat just a pebble’s throw from the dunes, its front step warm underfoot and the faint sound of waves already drifting over the low wall.

Inside, everything felt ready for doing nothing. The living room opened straight onto a patio where two stripy deckchairs waited like old friends, and the kitchen had that reassuring holiday smell of slightly burnt toast from the last guests. We dumped our bags, made tea in mismatched mugs, and wandered out with the paper. Within half an hour we’d both stopped checking our phones.

The beach path started at the end of the row, a short sandy track that opened onto miles of flat, golden shore. We didn’t bother with shoes. The tide was out, leaving wide, firm stretches perfect for slow wandering, and every so often a warm breeze lifted the pages of my book as I settled on the dry sand. My partner stretched out beside me with his eyes closed, claiming he was “just resting them,” which we both knew meant he’d be asleep in minutes.

Back at the cottage the afternoon stretched in that lovely, lazy way holidays do. I read two chapters without once reaching for my laptop, then pottered about making sandwiches we ate on the patio, watching a family fly a bright red kite further down the beach. The only plan we made was to maybe walk to the little shop for ice creams later, and even that felt optional.

There’s something gently ridiculous about how quickly you forget the rush of normal life. I’d spent the whole drive worrying about signal and whether I’d packed the right jacket, yet here I was, barefoot and content, with nothing more pressing than whether to read another chapter or simply watch the sea. The mishap with the sat-nav already felt like part of the story rather than a bother, and the cottage, with its sunny step and open door, seemed perfectly happy to let us do very little indeed.