I’d barely turned off the main road when the satnav decided to send me down what looked suspiciously like someone’s driveway, complete with a very surprised sheep staring me down through the windscreen. After a quick three-point turn and a muttered apology to the ewe, I finally pulled up outside Plas Amherst, a cheerful white cottage tucked just behind the dunes near Harlech. The sea air hit me the moment I opened the car door, sharp and clean, carrying that unmistakable tang of salt and seaweed that always makes me feel like I’ve properly arrived on holiday.

My first impression was all about the view. From the little gravel parking spot you could see straight over the low dunes to the sweep of Cardigan Bay, the water glinting under a sky that couldn’t quite decide if it was summer or not. The cottage itself felt instantly welcoming—solid stone walls, a bright red door, and enough windows to let the light flood in even on a grey Welsh afternoon. I dropped my bag inside, swapped trainers for walking boots, and set straight off along the coastal path, determined to make the most of the unexpected sunshine.

The path hugged the clifftops for the first mile or so, winding past tufts of thrift and the occasional rabbit darting for cover. I’d planned a gentle loop down to the beach and back, but the British weather had other ideas. Within twenty minutes the sun had vanished behind a bank of cloud the colour of wet slate, and a fine, persistent drizzle began to settle on my jacket. I laughed at myself for not checking the forecast properly—again—and pulled up my hood, deciding the rain wasn’t quite heavy enough to send me scurrying back. Instead I carried on, boots squelching happily along the sandy track that led down to the shore.

By the time I reached the beach the drizzle had eased into something almost pleasant, the sort of soft mist that makes everything look softer and somehow more dramatic. I walked along the tideline, collecting the odd shell and watching a couple of surfers in wetsuits bobbing beyond the breakers. Further along, the path climbed again towards the grassy headland, where the wind picked up just enough to make me grateful for the flask of tea I’d had the foresight to bring. Sitting on a handy rock, watching the gulls wheel overhead, I felt that familiar mix of mild embarrassment and quiet contentment that always seems to accompany my Welsh holidays.

The mishap on the way in already felt like part of the story, the sort of small chaos that sets the tone for everything that follows. As I turned back towards the cottage, the clouds began to thin once more, and a patch of watery sunlight caught the white walls of Plas Amherst in the distance. I realised I hadn’t even unpacked properly yet, but somehow that didn’t matter. The coast path had already done its job, reminding me that in North Wales you don’t so much plan adventures as adapt to whatever the weather decides to offer.