We’d barely made it out of the car park before the rain started, which might’ve been fine if I hadn’t left the boot wide open while I hunted for the key safe. By the time I sprinted back, the beach towels were doing a convincing impression of dishcloths and the kids were in fits. Still, the cottage looked exactly as promised: a neat, whitewashed place tucked just off the lane in Llanbedrog, with a little gravel drive and a wooden gate that squeaked in that reassuring, well-used way.

Inside, everything felt instantly homely. The living room had that soft, slightly saggy sofa you only get after years of proper family use, and the kitchen table was already laid with mismatched mugs and a little welcome note from the owners. We dumped our damp bags, flicked the kettle on, and the children disappeared upstairs to claim beds before we’d even unpacked the teabags. From the back window you could just catch a sliver of sea between the rooftops, grey and restless under the clouds.

Once we’d changed into the least soggy clothes we owned, we wandered the short path down to the beach. It’s only a few minutes’ stroll from the cottage gate—far enough to feel like an outing, close enough that nobody moans about walking. The tide was out, leaving wide, damp sand perfect for collecting shells and the odd bit of driftwood that my youngest insisted was “definitely treasure.” We didn’t stay long; the drizzle was persistent, but there’s something about North Wales beaches that makes even a damp walk feel worthwhile.

Back at the cottage the heating had kicked in, and we spread everything out to dry across the radiators like some chaotic laundry installation. Supper was simple—pasta from the local shop in the village and a bottle of wine we’d meant to save for later. The children fell asleep quickly, lulled by the sound of waves we could just hear if we left the bedroom window open a crack. I sat up a bit longer with a cuppa, listening to the occasional car on the lane and thinking how easy it is to forget that holidays don’t need to be packed with plans. Sometimes the best bit is just arriving, even if your towels get soaked before you’ve crossed the threshold.