I’ll never forget the drive down to Saundersfoot – or rather, the detour that nearly turned it into a comedy of errors. We’d packed the car with walking boots, the dog’s lead, and enough crisps to last a siege, buzzing with that pre-holiday anticipation of coastal paths and fresh sea air. But halfway through Pembrokeshire, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly, directing us down a narrow lane that ended in a muddy farm track. Cue me reversing into a hedge while my other half laughed so hard she nearly dropped her phone. Twenty minutes later, we emerged, a bit sheepish but still grinning, and finally rolled into Llanteg village just as the sun dipped low.

The cottage was a proper gem – this cosy spot for two (plus our daft spaniel, Monty) with an open-plan living area that felt like a hug, complete with a wood burner for chilly evenings, a private hot tub bubbling away, and a courtyard garden perfect for Monty to chase his tail. First impressions? Spot on. We dumped the bags, cracked open a bottle of wine, and just soaked it in, already plotting our walks.

Next morning, blue skies beckoned, so we headed straight for the Pembrokeshire Coast Path, barely a mile away towards Amroth. It’s stunning down there – rugged cliffs, sandy beaches, and views that make you forget the world. We ambled along to Wiseman’s Bridge, Monty splashing in rock pools while we munched pasties from a beach kiosk. Proper idyllic, that was, with gulls wheeling overhead and not a cloud in sight. I felt a proper sense of peace, you know? Like all the daily grind just melted away on those salty breezes.

But oh, the British weather – it’s got a wicked sense of humour. By afternoon, the fog rolled in thick as pea soup, turning our planned cliff-top hike into a comedy sketch. We pressed on towards the Saundersfoot headland, but visibility dropped to about ten feet, and Monty kept veering off into brambles. Laughing through chattering teeth, we cut it short and retreated to the cottage, where the wood burner roared back to life and that hot tub became our saviour. Sipping tea, wrapped in towels, I had one of those gentle moments of reflection: holidays aren’t about perfect plans, are they? It’s the daft bits – the fog, the mud, the unexpected – that stick with you.

Day two brought biblical rain, lashing the windows like it had a personal grudge. No chance of the coastal path today, so we improvised with inland walks around Llanteg’s quiet lanes and woods. Waterproofs on, we trudged through puddles to Coppet Hill, the views obscured but the wildflowers peeking through anyway. Monty loved it, turning into a muddy monster, while we dodged cow pats and debated the best chip shop in Saundersfoot (it’s the one by the harbour, obviously). Back home, hot tub again – bliss after a soggy stomp.

By our last day, the sun fought back, and we nailed a cracker of a walk from Saundersfoot beach up to the cliffs, spotting seals bobbing offshore. Weather-whipped plans or not, those hikes captured Pembrokeshire’s magic – wild, unpredictable, and utterly addictive. We’re already plotting a return.