I’ll never forget the drive down to Pembrokeshire last August – that golden stretch of summer when the Welsh sun finally decides to show up and stick around. We’d piled into the car from Cardiff, me navigating with a dodgy signal on my phone, the kids bickering in the back, and our spaniel, Monty, panting like he’d run a marathon already. About halfway there, disaster struck: a puncture on the A40, right in the middle of nowhere. Cue half an hour of sweaty faffing with the spare tyre while lorries thundered past. “This is holiday vibes already,” I muttered, wiping grease off my hands. But honestly, it just ramped up the anticipation – by the time we rolled into Little Haven, hearts were racing for that first glimpse of the sea.

Pulling up to our contemporary cottage perched right on the edge of the village was pure magic. Three plush bedrooms welcomed us with open arms, an enclosed garden for Monty to chase his tail, and it was a stone’s throw from the beach – ideal for a family like ours, or mates wanting a proper getaway (and yes, dog-friendly, thank goodness). Stepping inside felt like sinking into a hug: recliner sofas in the stylish sitting room begged us to flop down with the Smart TV flickering on, and the fully-equipped kitchen/diner was primed for summer feasts. First impressions? Spot on. The late August light flooded in, turning everything golden, and you could practically taste the salt air.

That time of year shaped every minute. Mornings kicked off with beachcombing at Little Haven, the sand still warm from the sun but not scorching, waves gentle enough for the kids to bodyboard without me having a heart attack. We’d wander to Broad Haven, just a short stroll away, where the summer crowds thinned out mid-afternoon, leaving space for epic sandcastle sessions. One day, we timed it for low tide and explored the rock pools teeming with crabs – the kids were in raptures, and I had a quiet chuckle at myself, remembering how I used to hate getting sandy as a lad. Gentle reminder: sometimes you’ve got to let go and get a bit grubby.

Afternoons meant lazy barbecues in the garden, the coastal breeze keeping things from getting too sticky. We rustled up fresh mackerel from the local fish shed – Pembrokeshire’s summer bounty at its best – and cracked open a few tins while Monty begged for scraps. Evenings? Sunset walks along the cliffs to Druidstone Haven, that rosy glow painting the sky as gulls wheeled overhead. No need for telly when nature’s putting on a show. One night, sat on the terrace with a cuppa, I reflected on how summer here strips life back – no schedules, just sun-soaked days blending into each other. It’s humbling, really; makes you appreciate the simple stuff, like the kids’ laughter echoing off the waves.

A cheeky mishap on the last day – Monty bolted into the sea and came back looking like a drowned rat – had us in stitches. Pembrokeshire in late summer? It’s like the coast’s final hurrah before autumn whispers in: vibrant, forgiving, unforgettable. We’re already plotting a return.