We’d barely made it through the front gate of the 3 Bed Cottage in Llanbedrog before the sat-nav decided we’d arrived in a field rather than a driveway, which meant reversing into a hedge while a pair of curious sheep watched from the lane. By the time we’d unpacked the car and located the kettle, the sky had that soft, late-afternoon glow you only seem to get on the Llyn Peninsula, and the promise of fish and chips was already calling louder than the view across the garden.

The cottage sits just a short stroll from the beach path, but our first priority wasn’t sand between the toes; it was supper. We wandered into the village and found the Ship Inn already busy with locals comparing the day’s catch. Their haddock, battered to a perfect crunch and served with thick-cut chips and mushy peas, hit the spot after the drive, and the landlord’s tip about the Saturday market in nearby Pwllheli sent us straight back the next morning with tote bags and empty stomachs.

By half-nine the market stalls were groaning under Welsh cheeses, fresh cockles and laverbread, and we came away with a round of Caerphilly, a bag of cockles and a loaf still warm from the baker’s van. Back at the cottage we spread everything across the kitchen table, opened the patio doors to let in the salt air, and attempted what we grandly called “beach tapas.” The cockles were a triumph; the cheese stayed firm despite the unexpected warmth of the aga. We even managed a quick pan-fry of some local sausages bought from the butcher two doors down, though one ended up on the floor thanks to an over-enthusiastic flip.

That evening we returned to the Ship for their Sunday roast, swapping stories with a couple who’d been coming to Llanbedrog every summer since the nineties. Their advice about the best Welsh cakes in the village led us, inevitably, to the little bakery tucked behind the post office the following lunchtime. Sitting on the low wall outside with a paper bag of still-warm cakes and a takeaway coffee, we watched the tide creep in and felt properly on holiday for the first time.

By the third night we’d grown bold enough to cook a full meal in the cottage kitchen, using the cockles, bacon and a splash of cider for a quick stew that bubbled away while we set the table on the patio. It wasn’t fancy, but it tasted of the place: salty, smoky and just a little bit improvised. As we cleared the plates under a sky streaked with pink, I caught myself thinking how easily a simple plan to eat well had turned into the real heart of the trip.