We’d barely got past the outskirts of Llandudno when the sat-nav decided to send us down a lane that was clearly meant for tractors. I was still insisting it knew a shortcut when the passenger-side wing mirror clipped a hedge and popped off with a sad little clunk. Ten minutes later we were parked outside Tudor Hall, mirror wedged in the boot like a guilty secret, hot tub steaming invitingly on the deck and the sea glinting just across the road.

First priority, naturally, was supper. We’d picked up a couple of fat Welsh pork sausages and some Caerphilly from the Saturday market in town, and I was determined to christen the shiny kitchen straight away. The hob looked straightforward enough, yet somehow the sausages went from pale to charred in the time it took to open a bottle of wine. We ended up eating them slightly cremated, tucked into buttered buns with a dollop of wholegrain mustard, sat on the little terrace while the waves shushed below. Not exactly Michelin-starred, but the view made up for the smoke alarm’s opinion.

Next morning the sun was out, so we wandered along the promenade to a little café we’d spotted on the way in. Bacon sandwiches arrived on thick sliced bread, the kind that soaks up the juice just right, and we washed them down with builder’s tea strong enough to stand a spoon in. From there it felt only polite to investigate the nearest pub, a low-ceilinged place with nautical prints and a chalkboard promising “catch of the day.” I went for battered haddock and chips; my other half tried the Welsh rarebit topped with a poached egg. Both plates came back empty, which felt like the correct verdict.

By teatime we were back at the cottage, determined to cook properly this time. We’d bought fresh mussels from the fishmonger on Mostyn Street and a crusty loaf to mop up the broth. The hot tub was bubbling away, so we took turns checking the seasoning while swapping between the steaming water and the stove. Somehow the timing worked out; the mussels opened perfectly, the garlicky wine sauce was bright with lemon, and we ate on our laps with the terrace door wide open. I caught myself thinking how rarely we manage a meal without phones or telly in the background, and for once the quiet felt like a proper treat rather than something we had to work at.

On our last evening we strolled back into town for one more pub dinner, this time at a spot overlooking the bay. Steak-and-ale pie for me, though I’ll admit the chips were the real star—crisp, salty, and far too moreish. Walking home along the front, the air cool and smelling faintly of salt, I realised the journey’s little disaster had set the tone for the whole break: nothing grand, just simple food done well and the occasional reminder that plans, like wing mirrors, sometimes need a gentle shove back into place.