We set off from the Midlands with the usual optimistic plan of arriving before the kids got too restless, but of course the M56 had other ideas. By the time we turned onto the winding road towards Harlech, everyone was hungry and the back seat had become a battlefield of crisp packets. Then came the small but perfectly avoidable mishap: I confidently followed the satnav down what looked like a perfectly reasonable lane, only to discover it narrowed into someone’s driveway with a very surprised sheep blocking our way. We reversed out laughing, the children declaring me officially the worst navigator in Wales, and finally pulled up at Sibrwd y Mor just as the light was turning that soft, late-afternoon gold.

The cottage sat quietly behind a low stone wall, the sort of place that looks smaller from the road and then opens up the moment you step inside. Our eldest immediately claimed the window seat in the living room, already unpacking a dog-eared paperback, while the youngest ran straight through to the little patio to inspect the view of the dunes. We hadn’t even unpacked the car properly before someone shouted that they could hear the sea, and sure enough, if you stood still you could just catch the soft, steady hush of waves on the beach below.

Inside, everything felt easy and ready for us. The kitchen had that reassuring holiday-cottage smell of fresh bread and faintly of woodsmoke from the log burner, and someone had left a pint of milk in the fridge with a cheerful note. We made tea in mismatched mugs and carried it outside, perching on the low wall while the children raced down the short sandy path to the beach for their first look. They came back sandy already, pockets full of shells and one slightly damp trainer, full of plans for tomorrow that I knew would probably change by breakfast.

What struck me most, after the slightly frantic journey, was how quickly the pace shifted. There was no rush to “do” anything; the beach was right there whenever we fancied it, and the dunes offered that perfect, gentle climb that tires children out without anyone realising. We wandered down again before supper, shoes in hand, watching a few late surfers catching the last of the swell. The air smelled of salt and warm sand, and for once nobody was checking their phones.

Later, back at the cottage, we cooked something simple while the youngest arranged their shell collection along the windowsill. I caught myself standing at the sink, watching the light fade over the water and thinking how rarely we manage to slow down like this at home. It wasn’t a dramatic revelation, just a quiet sort of gratitude for a place that didn’t ask much of us except to be there. By the time we settled with books and the last of the biscuits, the mishap on the lane already felt like part of the story, the sort of small chaos that makes you appreciate the stillness even more.