We’d barely turned off the main road towards Chwilog when the satnav decided our little detour via the lanes was “quicker,” and that’s when the car boot decided to pop open on its own. Out tumbled the cool bag, two bags of Welsh cakes, and a packet of bacon that somehow landed in a puddle. By the time I’d rescued everything and we’d pulled up outside Sgubor, we were laughing so much the neighbours probably thought we were already on the wine.

The cottage sat just far enough from the beach path that you could smell salt on the breeze but still wheel a trolley of shopping straight to the door, which felt like a small mercy after our bacon rescue mission. Inside, the kitchen greeted us like an old friend: a proper range, a scrubbed pine table, and enough mugs for a rugby team. We unpacked the rescued provisions, made a pot of tea, and immediately started planning where our first proper meal would come from.

That evening we wandered the short distance into Criccieth and found a cosy pub with a roaring fire and a blackboard promising “local lamb hotpot.” It arrived steaming, with buttered greens and mash that actually tasted of potato rather than water. We clinked glasses and decided that, mishaps aside, this trip might just be edible perfection. The next morning we drove the five minutes to the weekly market in Pwllheli, where stalls offered fresh cockles, bara brith, and a cheese so creamy we bought two wedges without asking the price. Back at Sgubor we attempted our own version of laverbread cakes, which came out more like greenish pancakes but tasted surprisingly decent with a fried egg on top.

By the third night we’d settled into a happy rhythm: a late breakfast of local sausages sizzling on the range, a stroll along the beach to work up an appetite, then back for a slap-up lunch of cockle spaghetti that somehow fed four hungry adults and still left leftovers. One evening we tried cooking a whole sea bass we’d bought straight off a fisherman’s van; it was slightly overdone on one side and perfect on the other, which we generously called “rustic.” Each meal seemed to taste better for being eaten within sight of the sea, and every time we cleared the plates we felt quietly proud that we hadn’t once reached for the takeaway menus.

What surprised me most was how the rhythm of shopping, cooking and eating became the real heart of the holiday. We’d arrived expecting dramatic sunsets and bracing walks, yet the memories that stuck were of flour on the worktop, the smell of frying bacon drifting out the open door, and the gentle clink of glasses after another slightly wonky but heartfelt meal.