We set off from the Midlands in that soft, late-September drizzle that always makes you wonder why you didn’t just stay home with a film. By the time we reached the A55 the wipers were working overtime, and my satnav, bless it, confidently sent us down a single-track lane that ended in somebody’s farmyard. After a five-point turn involving a very unimpressed sheep, we finally pulled up outside 24 Golf Village just as the clouds decided to have one last go at us.

The cottage sat tucked behind a low hedge, its windows already glowing against the early dusk. Inside it felt warm in that instant way holiday lets sometimes do when the heating’s been left on low for new arrivals. We dumped the bags, flicked on every lamp we could find, and stood for a moment listening to the rain tapping the Velux above the kitchen. September had brought the first proper chill of autumn; the kind that makes you reach for the kettle before you’ve even taken your coat off.

We wandered out onto the little deck once the shower eased. The air smelled of wet grass and salt, and beyond the static caravans of the wider park we could just make out the low, dark line of the beach. It wasn’t the bright, towel-on-sand weather of August; instead the tide was out, leaving a vast stretch of glistening sand that caught the last of the light like pewter. A couple of dog-walkers moved slowly along the water’s edge, their laughter carrying on the breeze. We decided against a proper stroll—my trainers were still damp from the farmyard detour—and settled instead for mugs of tea and a bag of Welsh cakes we’d picked up in Pwllheli earlier.

Later, with the curtains drawn and the oven warming a supermarket lasagne, I found myself thinking how different this trip felt from our usual summer dashes. In September the light fades early, so you’re forced to slow down; no frantic rush to catch every hour of sun. Instead there’s time to notice small things: the way the heating clicks on exactly when your socks start to feel cold, the soft thud of rain on the roof while you’re safe inside with a book. I caught myself smiling at how grateful I was for that forced pause, how a soggy arrival and an unplanned detour had nudged us straight into holiday mode without any of the usual performance of “making the most of it.”

By the time we turned in, the rain had settled into a steady rhythm that felt oddly comforting. Outside, the village was quiet except for the occasional distant bark of a dog and the low murmur of the sea. We lay there listening, coats still draped over the back of a chair to dry, already looking forward to a slow morning and the smell of toast rather than another long drive.