I’d barely turned off the A477 when the satnav decided we were “arriving at your destination” in the middle of a barley field. We laughed it off, reversed out, and finally bumped down the last narrow lane to The Elms just as the light was softening over the fields. The cottage sat low and whitewashed, its little garden gate already propped open by a terracotta pot of geraniums, and the sea air hit us the second we stepped out of the car.

Our first proper conversation happened before we’d even unpacked the cool bag. A woman in a bright yellow fleece was leaning on the fence with a collie at her feet, and she called across, “You the ones who got lost in Evans’s barley?” News clearly travels faster than the tide round here. She introduced herself as Glenys from two doors down and offered us a still-warm bara brith if we fancied it later. We said yes without thinking, and that was that.

By teatime we’d wandered the short path to the beach—only five minutes if you don’t stop to chat—and found ourselves roped into a conversation with a retired fisherman called Dai. He was untangling nets on an upturned dinghy and asked, straight-faced, whether we’d brought wellies or were planning to paddle in our trainers like “the last lot from Cardiff.” When I admitted the trainers were all we had, he shook his head in mock despair and pointed us towards a shed where he keeps spare pairs “for the daft ones.” We left wearing bright orange wellies two sizes too big, promising to return them before the tide turned.

Back at the cottage that evening, Glenys reappeared with the promised slice of bara brith wrapped in greaseproof paper. She stayed for a cup of tea on the little patio, telling us about the time the village hall flooded and everyone ended up dancing in wellies anyway. Her stories rolled on easily, and we found ourselves laughing at things we hadn’t even known were funny an hour earlier. It struck me, watching the collie chase its own shadow across the grass, how quickly you can feel part of a place when the locals decide you’re worth talking to.

Later, standing at the gate with the smell of salt and warm bread still in the air, I realised the satnav mishap hadn’t just got us here; it had handed us the first story the neighbours could tell about us. And somehow that felt exactly right for a cottage by the sea.