We’d barely made it off the M4 when the satnav decided to have a laugh at our expense. One minute we were trundling happily along, the next it announced we’d arrived—right in the middle of a roundabout outside Carmarthen. After a sheepish three-point turn and some choice words about technology, we finally pulled up outside the little whitewashed cottage just outside Tenby, the sea already glinting beyond the rooftops.

The moment the door swung open, the smell of salt and warm wood hit us. It was small, in the best way: a cosy living room with squashy sofas, a galley kitchen that somehow had everything we needed, and three bedrooms tucked under low ceilings that made you instinctively duck. We dumped our bags, swapped trainers for sandals, and headed straight out again; after all, we’d come for the coast path.

The first afternoon was textbook Pembrokeshire—bright, breezy, the sort of day that makes you forget you packed a waterproof at all. We followed the cliff trail south from Tenby’s harbour, the path narrow and springy underfoot, thrift and sea campion nodding in the wind. Every few minutes we stopped to watch gannets dive like white darts into the water. By the time we reached the little cove at Lydstep Haven we were properly warm and ready for a paddle; the tide was out, leaving warm, ridged sand perfect for bare feet. We ate slightly squashed pasties on a flat rock and declared the holiday officially started.

The next morning, however, the weather had other ideas. We woke to a soft, insistent drizzle that turned the cottage windows into watercolour smudges. Plans for a longer ridge walk were quietly shelved. Instead we pulled on light waterproofs—more optimism than protection—and set off anyway, reasoning that Welsh rain rarely lasts long. It didn’t. Within an hour the clouds cracked open and a proper downpour sent us scurrying into a café back in Tenby for tea and welsh cakes. Sitting there, watching umbrellas bob past, I realised how often we treat sunshine as a non-negotiable for enjoyment. The rain had forced us to slow down, to notice steam rising off the harbour and the way the old stone walls glowed darker when wet.

By afternoon the sky had cleared again, so we wandered the shorter coastal loop around Caldey Island viewpoint, the sea now glassy and improbably blue. Seals popped their heads up like curious labradors, and the air smelled of hot gorse. We ended the day back at the cottage, feet sandy, cheeks pink, the kettle on and the windows thrown open to let in the evening breeze.

It struck me, peeling off damp socks for the second time that day, that the cottage wasn’t just a roof; it was the perfect base for exactly this sort of changeable adventure. The mishap on the roundabout already felt like part of the story—proof that the best memories often start with small disasters and end with slightly damp shoes and very big smiles.