We’d been on the road for nearly five hours when the satnav decided we’d had quite enough fun and sent us down a single-track lane that ended in somebody’s driveway. My partner reversed with the sort of grim patience that only appears after the third “recalculating,” while our dog barked helpfully from the back seat. By the time we finally rolled into Aberdyfi the light was fading and the tide was right in, the little harbour looking as though someone had polished it.

The cottage sat just across the road from the beach, its whitewashed walls catching the last of the sun. We parked on the short gravel drive, grabbed the key from the lockbox, and stepped inside to the smell of fresh coffee someone had considerately left on the side. The kitchen opened straight onto a living room with squashy sofas and a wood-burner already laid; upstairs, three modest bedrooms waited, one of them already made up with the sort of crisp sheets that make you want to nap immediately.

We dropped our bags, slipped shoes off, and wandered straight out the back door onto the sand. The beach was empty except for a couple walking their spaniel, and the air tasted properly of salt and chips. A short stroll along the curve of the bay took us past the lifeboat station and the little row of coloured houses that always look better in photographs than they have any right to. Back at the cottage the kettle had just boiled—perfect timing—and we sat on the low wall outside with mugs in hand, watching the last ferry chug across the estuary.

It was only when we went to unpack that I realised I’d left the cool-bag with all our food in the boot of the car we’d hired from the station. We laughed about it, raided the welcome hamper for cheese and crackers, and promised ourselves a proper shop tomorrow. For now it felt enough to sit there, toes still sandy, listening to the quiet lap of the tide and the occasional laugh drifting up from the pub at the end of the road.