We’d barely made it off the dual carriageway before the satnav decided we were going somewhere entirely different, and by the time we rolled into Llandudno the rain had started in that soft, sideways Welsh way that soaks you without warning. Pine Lodge sits just a short walk from the sand, tucked behind a low wall that catches the salt on the breeze, and the moment the key turned in the door we felt the week stretch out in front of us like an empty beach at low tide.

The mishap came straight after. I’d promised the kids the big blue holdall would be fine on the back seat, but one sharp bend sent it sliding and the zip gave way, scattering socks, suncream and a half-eaten packet of Welsh cakes across the gravel drive. We were still laughing, bent double in the drizzle, when the neighbour from the next cottage wandered over with a dustpan, introducing himself as if stray laundry was the usual welcome ritual. Within minutes the mess was tidied, the kettle was on, and we’d already swapped notes on the best fish-and-chip spot along the front.

Inside, Pine Lodge felt instantly ours. The living room opens straight onto a little deck where you can sit with a mug and watch the tide creep in, and the kitchen is small enough that nobody’s ever more than a shout away when someone wants another round of toast. We unpacked at the pace of people who’ve decided the only plan is to have none.

That first afternoon we wandered down the short path to the beach, shoes in hand, letting the children race the waves while we trailed behind with the picnic blanket. The sand was still warm from a patch of unexpected sun, and every few minutes a red kite wheeled overhead as if keeping an eye on the whole bay. Back at the lodge we grilled sausages on the little barbecue, ate them straight from the tray with our fingers, and watched the lights come on along the promenade.

Later, once the children were asleep, I stood on the deck with a cup of tea and realised how rarely we slow down like this. The journey had been full of small disasters and detours, yet here we were, shoes sandy, hair salty, already planning nothing more ambitious than another walk along the shore tomorrow. Sometimes the best part of getting away is simply remembering how little you actually need once you’ve arrived.