I’d only been driving for about twenty minutes when the satnav decided to send me down a lane that was really more of a suggestion than a road. The hedge was so close I could have wound down the window and picked blackberries without stopping, and just as I was muttering about Welsh country lanes being narrower than they had any right to be, the front wheel dipped into a hidden pothole. There was a gentle thud, followed by the sort of silence that tells you something has come loose. I pulled over, peered underneath, and found my exhaust now sporting a jaunty new angle. Nothing dramatic, just enough to make the car sound like an enthusiastic tractor for the rest of the trip.

By the time I reached Southbourne Manor I was half expecting the owners to take one look at me and my poorly behaved motor and suggest I sleep in the car park. Instead they waved from the doorway with the sort of easy welcome that made the whole sorry episode feel like part of the holiday already. The cottage sat just back from the road in Llandudno, its garden catching the late afternoon sun and the faint, clean smell of the sea drifting over the low wall. Inside, everything felt immediately lived-in in the best way: a squashy sofa facing the window, a kettle that boiled in seconds, and a little shelf of paperbacks that looked as though they’d been read on rainy days and left out to dry in the sunshine.

I dumped my bag, made a cup of tea, and wandered straight down to the beach. It was only a short walk—five minutes if you didn’t stop to watch the seagulls arguing over chips—but long enough for the tension in my shoulders to start loosening. The tide was out, leaving a wide stretch of damp sand perfect for slow, aimless strolling. I didn’t bother with a plan. I just walked until my shoes were properly soaked, then sat on a low wall and let the sun do its work.

Back at the cottage the next morning I made a proper go of doing nothing at all. Breakfast happened on the patio because the weather was behaving itself, and afterwards I carried a book down to a deckchair on the lawn. Every so often I’d glance up to watch the light change on the sea, or listen to the distant squeak of children’s buckets and spades. Around midday I wandered back to the beach with a towel and another novel, telling myself I’d only stay an hour. Three hours later I was still there, pleasantly dazed from sun and salt air, with sand in places sand has no business being.

That first full day set the tone for the rest of the stay. Mornings drifted into afternoons without much fuss, and the only real decision was whether to read inside with the windows open or outside with a jumper on standby. The little kitchen made simple meals feel like an event—bread, cheese, and tomatoes eaten at the table with the door propped wide. Evenings were for slow walks along the prom as the light faded, watching the lights come on along the front and feeling properly glad I’d come.

By the time I loaded the car again—exhaust still at its interesting angle—I realised I hadn’t ticked off a single sight or walked a single mile with any sense of purpose. And that, somehow, felt like the whole point.