We set off from the ferry port with the usual mix of excitement and mild chaos, the car stuffed with wellies, sandy towels and far too many snacks. Everything was going swimmingly until we took the final turning too sharply and managed to wedge the front wheel in a surprisingly deep puddle. Cue ten minutes of everyone offering conflicting advice while I tried not to laugh at our own soggy predicament. Once we were free and only slightly damp around the ankles, the lane narrowed into a ribbon of green hedgerows that opened suddenly onto the little whitewashed cottage sitting just above the shore.

Bwthyn Eisteddfa Fach looked exactly as a proper Welsh beach bolthole should: low stone walls, a slate roof the colour of wet slate, and a wooden gate that squeaked in welcome. We tumbled out, the children already barefoot, and the first thing that struck me was the quiet. Not silence, but the soft, constant hush of waves brushing the nearby cove mixed with the odd bleat from a sheep on the slope behind. The air tasted of salt and cut grass, and I felt the week’s deadlines loosen their grip almost immediately.

Inside, the place felt lived-in rather than show-home pristine. A well-scrubbed pine table took up most of the kitchen, and someone had left a jar of local honey on the side with a note suggesting we help ourselves. Upstairs, the bedrooms were simple and cosy, with windows that framed nothing but sky and sea. We claimed our spots, flung open every sash, and let the breeze do the rest.

By late afternoon we’d wandered the short path down to the beach, shoes dangling from fingers. The sand was firm and cool underfoot, perfect for building an ambitious but doomed sandcastle that the tide claimed before we’d even added the moat. We collected a few shells, skipped stones until the light turned honey-gold, and trudged back up the slope with sandy knees and wind-blown hair. Back at the cottage, tea was brewed on the little stove while the children played cards at the table, occasionally pausing to watch a fishing boat chug past the headland.

Later, once everyone was in pyjamas, I stepped outside alone for a moment. The sky was streaked with pink and the only sound was the rhythmic hush of the waves. I realised how rarely I stand still long enough to notice such ordinary magic. It struck me that this was exactly what we’d come for: not grand adventures or packed itineraries, but the gentle reset that comes from sand between your toes and a kettle that’s always on the boil.

Morning brought the same easy rhythm. We ate toast on the doorstep, watching gulls wheel overhead, and decided the only plan was to have none at all. Another day of paddling, pebble collecting and the occasional competitive game of beach cricket stretched ahead, and none of us felt the slightest urge to rush it.