We’d barely got the satnav sorted before the first mishap struck. Somewhere between the A40 and the narrow lanes that snake down towards the coast, I managed to take what I thought was a shortcut and ended up nose-to-nose with a very unimpressed sheep in the middle of a single-track road. By the time we’d reversed, laughed, and found the right turning, the children were convinced we’d never arrive at all.

When we finally pulled up at Y Felin at Coed Cadw, the cottage looked exactly like the sort of place you promise yourself you’ll book again before you’ve even unpacked. The low stone walls caught the late-afternoon sun, and a faint smell of woodsmoke drifted from a neighbour’s garden. Inside, the kitchen still held the warmth of someone else’s holiday toast, and the kettle was already filled and ready—an unspoken welcome we appreciated more than any fancy welcome pack.

We left the bags where they landed and wandered straight down the lane towards the beach. It’s only a short stroll—long enough for small legs to complain once, short enough for them to forget about it the moment the sand appears. The tide was out, leaving wide, firm stretches perfect for a lazy kickabout with the football we’d found under the stairs. Every so often a wave would sneak in and soak someone’s trainers, which of course became the funniest thing that had happened all day.

Back at the cottage the children claimed the window seat as their own private lookout, counting passing boats while I made tea. From there you can see the curve of the bay and the low cliffs that turn gold at sunset. There’s something quietly reassuring about knowing the sea is just beyond the garden hedge; it makes even the smallest decisions—beans on toast or fish fingers—feel like part of a proper break.

Later, once the sky had gone that deep Pembrokeshire blue, we lit the wood burner and played cards on the rug. No telly blaring, just the occasional crackle and the sound of waves we could only just hear if we kept quiet. I found myself thinking how rarely we manage this: phones on the side, shoes kicked off, nowhere else we need to be. It’s easy to forget, in the rush of ordinary weeks, how little you actually need for a good few days away.

Tomorrow we’ll probably do the same thing in reverse—different wellies, same laughter—and I’m already looking forward to it.