We set off from the train station with the kind of optimism that only a weekend by the sea can bring, but our grand arrival at Ty Mawr quickly turned into a small comedy of errors. The satnav insisted the cottage was “on your right in 200 yards,” which would have been helpful if we hadn’t already driven past it twice while arguing about whether the little stone chimney poking above the wall was ours or next door’s. By the time we hauled the cool bag up the short path and unlocked the door, the milk had sloshed everywhere and a rogue sausage roll had escaped its wrapper.

Still, the kitchen made up for the mess. A proper Welsh dresser stood ready for our market haul, and the fridge hummed like it had been waiting for us. We dumped the damp shopping bags on the table and took stock: a crusty loaf from the stall by Mostyn Street, a wedge of Caerphilly, and a paper twist of cockles we’d bought on impulse from the fishmonger near the front. The plan had been a civilised lunch on the little patio, but the wind had other ideas, so we ended up eating standing at the counter while the kettle boiled for tea.

By late afternoon the rain had eased, so we wandered down to the pub on the promenade for an early dinner. The place was already half full with locals watching the rugby on a screen the size of a small boat. We squeezed onto stools at the bar and ordered the Welsh rarebit with a side of chips, plus a pint each—mine a dark stout that tasted faintly of chocolate, his a pale ale that disappeared far too quickly. The rarebit arrived bubbling and properly tangy, the kind you have to let cool for a minute unless you enjoy burning the roof of your mouth. Between mouthfuls we watched the tide slip in and decided tomorrow’s breakfast would be done properly at Ty Mawr.

Back at the cottage the next morning, we attempted a full fry-up with varying degrees of success. The bacon behaved, the eggs less so; one yolk staged a daring escape across the worktop while the toast decided to char itself in protest. We ate it anyway, laughing at our own kitchen theatrics, then packed the leftovers into rolls for a picnic bench on the little stretch of beach below the Great Orme. The cockles had survived the night in their paper twist and tasted even better with a sprinkle of vinegar from a sachet we’d nicked from the pub.

Later we popped into the tiny Saturday market near the pier for fresh laverbread and a couple of Welsh cakes still warm from the griddle. We carried them home in a brown paper bag that quickly grew translucent with butter, then spent the evening attempting to recreate the rarebit we’d enjoyed the night before. It wasn’t quite the same without the pub’s industrial grill, but the view from the window—sea mist rolling over the rooftops—made up for any culinary shortcomings. Sitting there, scraping the last melted cheese from the pan with a crust of bread, I realised the mishaps were already turning into the best bits: the milk-splashed car seat, the burnt toast, the runaway yolk. They were the small disasters that somehow made the meals taste better and the cottage feel more like ours, even if only for a weekend.