We’d barely been on the road two hours when the satnav decided we were “arriving” in the middle of a roundabout outside Fishguard. After a loop, a flustered u-turn and some choice words at the dashboard, we finally trundled down the lane to Y Stabl just as the light was fading over the bay. The little whitewashed cottage sat tucked behind a low stone wall, and the smell of salt and woodsmoke met us the moment we opened the car doors.

Inside, the kitchen greeted us with a scrubbed pine table and a basket of local Welsh cakes left by the owner. We hadn’t planned anything fancy for that first night, but the mishap on the roundabout had left us both ravenous, so we wandered the short path to the beach and followed the coastal footpath into Goodwick. Ten minutes later we were perched on stools at the Hope and Anchor, tucking into bowls of cockles and chips washed down with pints of local ale. The landlord chuckled when we admitted we’d got lost on a roundabout no bigger than a roundabout should be, and slipped us an extra portion of tartare sauce for our troubles.

Next morning the sun was already bright on the water, so we strolled to Fishguard’s little Saturday market. Stalls groaned under wheels of Caerphilly, jars of laverbread, and crusty bara brith still warm from someone’s oven. We filled a paper bag with smoked mackerel and a crusty loaf, then carried everything back to Y Stabl’s tiny kitchen. My attempt at a proper Welsh breakfast quickly turned into mild chaos when I managed to flip a fried egg clean onto the floor. We rescued what we could, laughed until we cried, and ended up eating smoky bacon sandwiches on the bench outside while seagulls wheeled overhead.

By evening we were back in Goodwick again, this time at the Royal Oak for their Friday pie night. The steak-and-ale came steaming under a suet lid so thick you could stand a spoon in it, and the greens were buttered to within an inch of their lives. We lingered over second pints, watching locals drift in and out, until the light finally slipped behind the headland. Walking home along the darkening lane, bellies full and shoes sandy, I found myself thinking how strange it is that the smallest disasters—a wrong turn, a dropped egg—somehow make the simplest meals taste twice as good.