We’d barely left the A55 when the satnav decided to have a bit of a moment, cheerfully announcing “you have arrived” while we were still trundling past a row of static caravans. A quick three-point turn later we were bumping down the single-track lane to Pyllau Farm, the sea already glinting between the hedgerows like someone had left a light on.

Our first proper encounter was with Mr Hughes from the neighbouring cottage, who materialised at the gate with a collie at his heels and a carrier bag of eggs. “You’re the ones from the internet, then?” he said, as though we’d materialised from a different dimension. We admitted we were, and he nodded like that explained everything. “Mind the step by the back door—Mrs P fell off it last week and blamed the seagulls.”

Inside, the cottage was exactly the right side of cosy; a kettle already filled, a note about the Wi-Fi password taped to the fridge. We were still unpacking when the doorbell—a proper old-fashioned bell on a string—jangled. It was the woman from the farm shop down the lane, popping by with a spare pint of milk “in case you take it black first thing.” She stayed for a cuppa and told us the tale of the year the council tried to rename the lane after a councillor’s auntie and the entire village signed a petition that read, simply, “No.”

By late afternoon we’d wandered the short path to the beach, pebbles clicking under our shoes. A retired postman called Dai was walking his terrier along the tideline and stopped to ask if we’d seen the otter yet. When we said no, he looked almost relieved. “Good,” he said. “Means he’s still shy. Don’t go telling the visitors from Birmingham.” We promised we wouldn’t, and he tipped an imaginary hat before continuing his patrol.

Back at the cottage that evening, Mr Hughes reappeared with a handful of kindling “for the burner—saves you buying the damp stuff from the garage.” He lingered on the doorstep long enough to hear about our satnav mishap, then chuckled so hard the collie started barking. “Happens to everyone,” he said. “Last week a couple from Leeds ended up in a lay-by convinced they were at the farmhouse. Took them an hour to realise the sheep weren’t part of the booking.”

Sitting on the low wall afterwards, mug of tea going cold in my hands, I realised the journey hiccup had done us a favour. Without it we might have breezed straight past the people who actually make the place feel like somewhere you’ve already been before. The lane was quiet now, just the soft hush of the tide and the occasional bleat from the field behind the barn. For the first time in ages I wasn’t mentally listing the next thing to do; I was simply listening to an old man’s dog snuffling through the grass and wondering how soon we could come back without needing an excuse.