We’d barely made it out of the car when the journey’s small disaster struck. I’d insisted on stopping at a little roadside bakery just outside Tenby for fresh Welsh cakes, only to discover I’d left the paper bag on the passenger seat and sat right on it. Crumbs everywhere, jam on the upholstery, and my other half laughing so hard he nearly dropped the key to the cottage. Still, the mishap set the tone for the weekend: everything would revolve around food, and nothing would go quite to plan.

The cottage itself sits just a short stroll from the beach, so after brushing the worst of the crumbs off ourselves we wandered straight into town in search of supper. Tenby’s harbour pubs were already glowing with that early-evening warmth, and we slipped into one that smelled of frying fish and vinegar. My partner ordered the haddock and chips; I went for laverbread cakes with cockles, curious to try the local seaweed delicacy. Both arrived piping hot, and the simple joy of eating something that had probably been landed that morning made the sticky car journey feel like ancient history.

Next morning we headed to the weekly market just off the high street, baskets in hand. Stalls groaned under wheels of Caerphilly, jars of pickled samphire, and fat sticks of freshly made sausages. We bought far too much, naturally, and lugged it all back to the cottage kitchen. I’d pictured myself rustling up an impressive seafood stew while my partner chopped herbs and poured wine, but the ancient gas hob had other ideas. One ring kept sputtering out, and the stew reduced to something closer to a thick paste. We ate it anyway, mopping it up with crusty bread from the market, and declared it “rustic.”

By the third evening we’d learned our lesson and decided to let someone else do the cooking. A tiny bistro tucked down a side street served the best Welsh rarebit I’ve ever tasted, all molten cheese and mustard bite, followed by a slice of bara brith so moist it barely needed butter. Sitting there, watching the last of the light fade over the harbour, I realised how much of the holiday had already been measured in meals: the failed stew, the perfect chips, the accidental picnic of market cheese eaten on the living-room floor because we’d forgotten plates.

What struck me most, though, was how unhurried everything felt once food was involved. There was no rush to tick off sights or follow an itinerary; instead we simply wandered between market, pub and cottage table, letting hunger guide us. Even the squashed Welsh cakes had become part of the story, a running joke whenever we opened the fridge and spotted the surviving crumbs. By the time we locked the door for the final time, I knew we’d be back—not for the scenery, not even for the beach, but for another chance to get the stew right and, more importantly, to linger over one more plate of something simple and local.