We’d only just pulled off the A55 when the satnav decided we were better off in a field. One wrong turning later and we were bumping along a single-track lane with a hedge brushing the passenger window and my partner loudly insisting we were “definitely still on the right road.” By the time we spotted the little sign for Awel y Mor, we were both laughing too hard to be cross. The cottage sat just back from the dunes, its pale render glowing in the late afternoon sun, and the moment we stepped out the car the sea air hit us like a friendly shove.

Inside, everything felt ready for doing nothing at all. The kettle clicked on while we kicked off our shoes, and through the open patio doors we could hear the low hush of waves on the shore. We didn’t unpack properly; we just dragged the garden chairs onto the small deck and sat with mugs of tea, watching the light slide across the sand. A seagull landed on the fence post, gave us a once-over, and clearly decided we weren’t worth the effort.

The next morning set the pattern for the whole week. We wandered the hundred yards to the beach with nothing but a blanket and a tote bag of paperbacks. The tide was out, leaving wide, damp stretches perfect for slow strolls that somehow always ended with us sitting down again. I’d brought three books and finished none of them; every time I opened one, a distraction appeared—a crab scuttling sideways, the distant bark of a dog, or simply the warmth soaking through my jumper. Lunch was whatever we’d grabbed from the little Spar in Prestatyn on the way in: crusty rolls, Welsh cakes, and far too many packets of crisps. We ate them cross-legged on the sand, brushing crumbs off the blanket and agreeing we’d “do something proper tomorrow.”

Tomorrow never really arrived. Instead we perfected the art of moving only when strictly necessary. One afternoon we made it as far as the wooden steps that lead onto the promenade, then turned around because the sun on the cottage’s little deck looked too inviting. I spent an embarrassing amount of time just watching the clouds change shape while my partner dozed beside me, occasionally murmuring that we really ought to go for a proper walk. We never did. The gentle guilt only lasted until the next mug of tea appeared.

By the final evening the mishap on the lane already felt like part of the charm. We sat outside again, hoodies on against the cooling air, listening to the sea and not saying much. I realised I hadn’t checked my emails once, hadn’t made a single plan, and hadn’t minded either. Sometimes the best thing a holiday can do is remind you how little you actually need to do.