I’d barely pulled into the lane when the satnav decided we were already at the cottage, sending us straight into a hedge. We reversed out with a sheep looking distinctly unimpressed, and that was how we met Gwyn, who was out walking his terrier and offered to guide us the last fifty yards.

He introduced himself as “the unofficial welcoming committee” and promptly asked if we’d brought our own wellies or were planning to borrow his spare pair. By the time we’d unloaded the car he’d already given us the low-down on the tide times, the best pasty van on the coast road, and which local dog always tries to steal beach balls. His parting advice was to keep the back gate latched unless we wanted the neighbour’s goat for company at breakfast.

Later that afternoon we wandered down to the little cove and got chatting to Megan, who runs the honesty-box café just above the dunes. She was restocking flapjacks when we arrived and immediately launched into a story about the time a rogue seagull made off with an entire tray of them. We ended up helping her carry a couple of boxes while she told us about the annual sandcastle competition that the village still holds, even in the rain.

Back at the cottage that evening we sat on the little patio with mugs of tea, listening to the waves and replaying the day’s conversations. Gwyn had been right about the goat; we’d already had to shoo it away twice. It struck me how quickly a place stops feeling like a holiday let and starts feeling like somewhere you’ve been invited, simply because the people around it treat you that way from the first hello.