We set off from the train station in Barmouth with the cottage details printed out, convinced the satnav would see us right, until I confidently turned us down a farm track that ended in a field of very surprised sheep. By the time we’d reversed back onto the proper lane, we were both laughing and slightly late, but the first sight of Ty’n Y Clawdd made the detour worthwhile. Perched just above the beach at Dyffryn Ardudwy, the little stone cottage looked exactly like the photos—whitewashed walls, slate roof, and a garden gate that opened straight onto the coastal path.

We dumped our bags, changed into walking boots, and headed straight out, keen to make the most of the promised sunshine. The path hugs the cliffs for a couple of miles either way, and we decided to wander north first, past dunes and low grassy headlands. It felt good to stretch our legs after the journey, and the sea was that bright, almost Mediterranean blue you sometimes get on a lucky Welsh day. We stopped often to watch oystercatchers skittering along the tideline and to breathe in the salt air that already felt like holiday.

Half an hour in, the clouds rolled in with that typically British suddenness, turning the blue sky into a soft grey blanket. We’d left the waterproofs back at the cottage, so we ducked into a little hollow between two dunes and waited it out, sharing a slightly squashed flapjack and watching the rain sweep across the bay. It passed as quickly as it arrived, leaving everything sparkling and the air fresher than before. We carried on, shoes now damp but spirits high, until we reached a rocky cove where the waves were crashing in with proper drama.

By the time we turned back, the sun had returned and the path was busy with other walkers and their dogs. We paused on a bench overlooking the beach to watch families building sandcastles and teenagers braving the still-cool water. It struck me, sitting there with my damp socks and wind-blown hair, how easy it is to forget that a proper coastal walk doesn’t need perfect weather or grand plans—just decent boots and a willingness to adapt when the sky decides to join in.

Back at Ty’n Y Clawdd the kettle went on and the windows steamed up while we peeled off our layers. The cottage felt instantly welcoming, with its low ceilings and the faint smell of woodsmoke from the stove. We sat at the little table by the window, looking out at the beach we’d just explored, and I found myself thinking how the small mishap on the way here had set the tone for everything since: a reminder that the best bits of a holiday often come from the unplanned bits, the sudden showers, and the sheep that send you the long way round.