We’d only been on the road for about twenty minutes when the satnav decided to send us down what looked like a farm track and promptly lost signal. By the time we’d reversed out of someone’s gateway and found the right turning again, we were both laughing and slightly sticky from the unexpected detour. Still, the moment we pulled up outside The Paddock, all the faff melted away. The little whitewashed cottage sat just far enough from the lane to feel private, yet close enough to hear the sea if the wind was right.

We’d barely got the kettle on before the sun decided to stay out properly, so we dragged the garden chairs onto the patio and left the unpacking for later. From there you could see a sliver of the bay between the rooftops, and the light on the water kept changing every few minutes. I’d packed three books and finished none of them that first afternoon; instead I kept getting distracted by the gulls and the occasional dog-walker ambling past on the coastal path.

The beach itself was only a short stroll down the lane—sand still warm underfoot even though it was late in the day. We didn’t take towels or a picnic, just shoes we could kick off, and ended up sitting on a low wall watching a family trying to fly a kite that kept dive-bombing the waves. It felt like the sort of evening where nothing needs planning.

Back at the cottage the fridge was already stocked with the bits we’d grabbed in Tenby on the way through, so tea was just bread, cheese and tomatoes eaten outside while the light faded. I caught myself checking my phone out of habit and then deliberately left it on the kitchen table for the rest of the night. There’s something quietly rebellious about ignoring messages when you’re this close to the sea.

The next morning started the same way—slow. We wandered down again with coffee in travel mugs, found a patch of dry sand, and simply stayed there. No agenda, just the occasional paddle when the tide crept in and the satisfying crunch of someone else’s dog chasing a stick. By midday we were back on the patio with our books, though mine was mostly serving as a sun-shade for my face. Every so often one of us would say something like “we should probably do something,” then immediately agree that doing nothing was the better plan.

It’s funny how quickly the body remembers how to slow down once the signal is patchy and the only decisions are tea or another chapter. I’d come expecting to tick off coastal walks and maybe a boat trip, yet here we were, perfectly content watching the washing on the line lift in the breeze. The Paddock didn’t push us to be busy; it simply offered a sunny spot to sit and the sound of waves to fill any silence we hadn’t noticed we needed.