We’d barely made it off the A55 before the satnav decided to have a little laugh at our expense, sending us down a single-track lane that narrowed with every bend until we were nose-to-nose with a tractor. By the time we’d reversed into someone’s driveway and swapped sheepish waves, the sun had slipped behind a cloud and we were both wondering whether our “quick arrival” was going to turn into an all-day saga. Still, when we finally pulled up at Gwylan Uchaf and saw the sea glinting just beyond the garden gate, every wrong turn felt worth it.

The cottage sat tucked against the slope, its windows already open to the salt air. We dumped the bags, kicked off our shoes, and stepped straight onto the coastal path that runs right past the front gate. The tide was out, revealing a wide stretch of sand that looked perfect for an afternoon wander, so we grabbed light jackets and set off with nothing but a bottle of water and wildly optimistic plans for a long coastal loop.

Half an hour later the sky had other ideas. A brisk wind whipped in from the Irish Sea, and within minutes the temperature dropped enough to make us pull our jackets tighter. We pressed on anyway, following the path as it hugged the low cliffs toward the little harbour at Y Felinheli. The walk was gentle, the sort where you can chat without getting out of breath, and we kept stopping to watch oystercatchers skitter along the shoreline. By the time we reached the village we were both pink-cheeked and laughing about how we’d packed for summer yet ended up dressed for early spring.

We decided to turn back before the weather turned properly Welsh. The return leg felt quicker, helped along by the thought of the kettle waiting at the cottage. Back at Gwylan Uchaf we spread damp jackets over the radiator and stood at the window watching the clouds scud across the bay. It struck me, not for the first time, how often our holidays here are shaped less by grand itineraries and more by whatever the weather fancies doing that day. Still, there’s something oddly satisfying about letting the coast decide the pace.

After a quick cuppa we ventured out again, this time aiming for the wooded stretch of path that climbs gently behind the cottage. The sun had reappeared, turning the gorse bright yellow and coaxing out a few late butterflies. We ambled rather than strode, pausing whenever a gap in the trees offered another view of the water. By late afternoon we were back on the beach, shoes off, toes in the cool sand, watching a handful of locals walking their dogs as the tide crept in.

That first day set the tone for the rest of the week: mornings spent chasing sunshine along the cliffs, afternoons rearranged by sudden showers, and evenings spent grateful that everything we needed was within a short stroll of the front door. It wasn’t the long, sun-drenched hikes we’d pictured, but it felt properly North Walian—unpredictable, beautiful, and somehow exactly what we needed.