We’d barely made it out of the car before the first proper disaster struck. I’d been so busy gloating about how smoothly the drive from Manchester had gone that I completely forgot about the low lintel above the cottage door. One enthusiastic duck and I still managed to clip my forehead on the beam, sending my sunglasses skittering across the slate floor of The Causeway like a pair of startled crabs. My partner’s snort of laughter didn’t help, but at least the cottage itself seemed to find it funny; the low ceilings and cosy nooks gave everything a slightly conspiratorial feel, as if the place was in on the joke.

Once the bump had been iced with a bag of frozen peas from the little kitchenette, we finally took stock. The Causeway sits just a pebble’s throw from Llandudno’s wide, curving shore, and from the living-room window you can watch the tide slide in and out like it’s got all the time in the world. That first afternoon we didn’t do much more than drag two stripy deckchairs onto the tiny patio, pour cold lemon squash, and let the sun do its work. The only plan was to have no plan at all.

By the second morning we’d perfected the art of moving very slowly. Breakfast happened whenever the kettle had finished boiling, which could be anywhere between nine and half-ten, and afterwards we’d wander the hundred yards or so down to the beach with a blanket and whatever book had survived the journey. Mine was a battered paperback I’d meant to finish the previous summer; somehow the pages turned themselves between dozes. The sea air did that thing where it makes you feel both sleepy and strangely alert, so we’d read a chapter, watch a toddler chase a seagull, read another paragraph, then promptly forget what we’d just read.

Occasionally we’d stroll along the promenade as far as the paddling pool and back, stopping to buy two flaky pasties from the kiosk that always seems to smell of vinegar and hot sugar. We’d eat them sitting on the low wall, feet dangling, while toddlers shrieked in the shallow water and an elderly couple power-walked past with matching Nordic poles. It felt indulgent and gloriously pointless.

Back at the cottage the hours stretched in the best way. I’d promised myself I’d finally clear out my inbox, but every time I opened the laptop the cursor just blinked at me until I gave up and went to lie on the window seat instead, listening to the gulls argue over chips. There’s something about that particular slant of Welsh light in late afternoon that makes ambition feel slightly ridiculous.

By the third evening I caught myself wondering why rushing ever seems necessary. The small bump on my forehead had faded to a faint pink memory, the unread emails could wait, and the tide was coming in again, slow and certain as ever. We sat outside until the air cooled, the only light coming from the open cottage door behind us, and for once doing nothing felt like the entire point of being there.