We’d barely left the main road when the sat-nav decided we were clearly in need of an adventure and sent us down a single-track lane that narrowed with every bend. By the time we realised the “shortcut” had taken us past three farms and a rather unimpressed sheep, the boot was already half-open from the bumpy track and my sunglasses were somewhere under the passenger seat. We arrived at Trem Ynys laughing and slightly windswept, the key safe glinting in the low afternoon light like it had been waiting for us to sort ourselves out.

First impressions were exactly what a tired driver needs: a low white cottage tucked just far enough from the road that the only sound was the distant hush of waves and the odd gull arguing with itself. The garden sloped gently toward a path that looked like it might lead to the beach, and the windows caught the last of the sun so the whole place seemed to glow. We tumbled inside, dropped bags in the hallway, and immediately made tea in mismatched mugs we found in the cupboard, feeling like we’d stumbled on someone else’s weekend rather than booked it ourselves.

Still slightly giddy from the detour, we decided a short walk would “clear our heads” before unpacking properly. The path we thought led straight to the sand instead wound behind a low hedge and delivered us to a tiny cove we hadn’t noticed on any map. A handful of locals were quietly gathering driftwood, and one waved us over to point out a narrow gap in the rocks that, at low tide, opened into a sheltered scoop of sand no wider than a picnic blanket. We stayed longer than planned, shoes off, toes in the cold water, watching the light slide across the water like someone had turned a dimmer switch.

On the way back we took another wrong turn and found ourselves on a gravel track that climbed behind the cottage. Halfway up, an old stone stile led to a field where a single bench sat facing the whole sweep of the bay. We sat there until our fingers went numb, sharing the slightly squashed flapjacks we’d bought at the petrol station, and admitted that getting lost had already given us more of the holiday than any planned itinerary could have.

By the time we wandered back to Trem Ynys the sky had turned that soft North Walian grey that makes everything feel closer. Lights from neighbouring cottages twinkled through the dusk, and the faint smell of someone’s barbecue drifted over the hedge. We cooked a simple supper in the little kitchen, windows open to the evening air, and kept catching each other smiling at how easily the day had unfolded once we stopped trying to follow directions.