We’d barely left the A55 when the satnav decided to have a proper tantrum, rerouting us down a single-track lane that narrowed with every bend until the hedges were practically brushing the wing mirrors. By the time we pulled up outside Ty Llwyd the sun was already sliding behind the hills, and the cottage looked exactly like the photos—stone walls, slate roof, a little wooden gate that squeaked when you lifted it. We were starving, so instead of unpacking we grabbed the torch from the glovebox and wandered down the lane that supposedly led to the beach.

Ten minutes later the path forked without warning. We took the left one, which promptly petered out into a sheep field. The right fork looked promising until it dipped into a dip we hadn’t noticed on the map and deposited us beside a half-hidden stile. Beyond it lay a narrow strip of sand tucked between two low headlands, completely empty except for a couple of oystercatchers. We hadn’t meant to find it; the tide was out and rock pools glinted like someone had scattered coins.

Back at the cottage the kettle had just boiled when we noticed a handwritten note from the owner pinned to the noticeboard: “If you fancy a quiet pint, the Ship’s still open—turn right at the red phone box, not left.” Naturally we turned left. That sent us past a row of whitewashed cottages and straight into someone’s back garden where an apologetic spaniel barked once and then wagged its tail. The actual pub turned out to be another five minutes the other way, but the detour had already shown us a tiny stream running under a stone bridge we would never have spotted in daylight.

Next morning we set off again with better intentions and worse map-reading skills. A footpath marked on an old Ordnance Survey print led, we thought, to the coastal path; instead it climbed through bracken and delivered us to a bench overlooking a cove we hadn’t even known existed. From there we could see Ty Llwyd’s chimneys below us, smoke curling up from the fire we’d lit before leaving. We sat for a while listening to the gulls and the faint wash of waves, feeling slightly smug at having stumbled on somewhere so ordinary and so lovely.

By the time we wandered back the light was turning golden and the lane felt shorter, as though the cottage had shifted a few metres closer while we were away. We still hadn’t managed a proper beach walk, but the unplanned detours had already given us more of North Wales than any itinerary could have planned.