We’d barely cleared the outskirts of Porthmadog when the satnav decided we were taking the scenic route. One minute we were trundling along happily, the next we were reversing down a single-track lane while a tractor driver gave us the sort of look usually reserved for lost sheep. By the time we pulled up outside Awelfryn, the boys were bickering about who’d caused the detour and I was promising myself, for the hundredth time, that next holiday we’d leave the satnav at home.

The cottage sat just a pebble’s throw from the beach path, its whitewashed walls catching the late-afternoon sun. Stepping inside felt like walking into someone else’s Sunday afternoon: the kettle already filled, a jar of local biscuits on the side, and that faint, comforting smell of woodsmoke from the wood-burner. We dumped the bags, kicked off sandy shoes that hadn’t even made it to the sea yet, and wandered through to the little garden. From there you could hear the soft hush of waves on the shingle, and the boys were off down the path before I’d even found the corkscrew.

We spent the first evening doing very little and enjoying every minute of it. Tea on the patio, toes buried in the cool grass, watching the light slide off the water as the tide crept in. Later, after a quick fish-and-chip supper from the village, we wandered back along the beach with torches, hunting for the brightest shells before the dark properly settled. It was the sort of aimless, low-key evening that holidays are meant for—no agenda, no rush, just the simple pleasure of being somewhere the Wi-Fi is patchy and nobody minds.

Lying in bed that night, listening to the occasional rattle of the window in the breeze, I found myself thinking how rarely we manage to slow down like this at home. The mishap on the lane already felt like part of the story rather than a nuisance, and I realised that sometimes the best starts are the ones that don’t go quite to plan.