We set off for Ysgubor Barn with the sort of optimistic weather forecast that always feels like tempting fate. The satnav promised an easy run along the coast, but somewhere near the Little Orme it decided we’d had enough guidance for one day and sent us down a single-track lane that narrowed with every hedgerow. By the time we reached a gate that definitely wasn’t ours, the car was coated in a fine film of Welsh dust and my partner was trying not to laugh at the “shortcut” I’d sworn by. We reversed into a passing place, admitted defeat, and followed a handwritten sign that simply read “beach this way.”

That unplanned detour turned out to be the best decision of the weekend. Instead of the usual promenade route into Llandudno, we stumbled onto a quiet stretch of sand tucked behind a line of low dunes, empty except for a couple of locals walking their dogs. The tide was out, revealing rock pools that glittered in the late light, and we spent a happy half-hour poking about for tiny crabs while the barn key sat forgotten in my pocket.

When we finally located Ysgubor Barn—tucked down its own gravel track just above the quieter end of the beach—it felt like discovering a secret of its own. The low stone building sat half-hidden by a wind-shaped hawthorn, and the moment we stepped inside the smell of woodsmoke and fresh bread greeted us. We dumped our bags, made tea in mismatched mugs, and watched the sun slide behind the Little Orme from the small garden.

Next morning we tried to be sensible and follow the coastal path towards town, but the map on my phone gave up halfway along a sheep track. We ended up in a narrow gully where thrift and sea campion spilled over the rocks, and a tiny waterfall trickled into a pool just big enough to cool hot feet. A handwritten noticeboard nailed to a fencepost advertised “honesty-box eggs” from a nearby farm; we bought half a dozen and carried them back like treasure.

By the time we returned to the barn the tide had turned again, and we decided against any further plans. Instead we spread a blanket on the grass, cracked the eggs into a pan on the little outdoor stove, and ate them with yesterday’s bread while gulls wheeled overhead. It struck me, watching the light fade over an empty beach we’d found by accident, how often the best bits of a holiday arrive when the satnav goes rogue and you simply follow the handwritten signs.