I’ll never forget the drive down to Saundersfoot – sat nav insisting we take some winding back lane that turned into a proper comedy of errors. We ended up behind a tractor chugging along at snail’s pace, hay bales wobbling like they might topple any second, and me in the passenger seat tutting away while secretly loving the absurdity of it all. By the time we finally rolled into the village, hearts were racing a bit, but oh, what a payoff. Saundersfoot hit us like a breath of fresh sea air – that classic Welsh seaside charm with colourful boats bobbing in the harbour and the beach just gleaming in the distance. We couldn’t wait to dump the bags and dive into holiday mode.

Pulling up to the place, my first impressions were spot on. It’s this cracking contemporary apartment, right in the heart of the village – I’m talking a flat three-minute stroll to the sand, the harbour, a couple of cracking pubs, and those little shops flogging pasties and ice creams. Private entrance up to the first floor, and inside? Immaculate open-plan living that’s spacious without feeling echoey, comfy sofas begging you to flop down, and everything modern but not fussy. We wandered in, kicked off our shoes, and I swear, the tension from the drive melted away like ice cream on a hot day.

The real joy of the whole trip, though, was doing sod all – and I mean that in the best possible way. No grand plans, no ticking off lists of must-sees. We’d amble down to the beach for a morning paddle in the shallow waves, toes sinking into that fine Pembrokeshire sand, then wander back for a lazy lunch from one of the harbour cafes – fish and chips wrapped in paper, eaten on a bench watching families build wonky sandcastles. Afternoons were for the garden area outside; nothing fancy, just a sunny spot with a bit of grass and those sea breezes whispering through. I’d crack open a book – some daft crime novel I’d been meaning to read for months – while the other half dozed under a newspaper hat. Bliss.

One evening, sat there with a cuppa as the sun dipped low over the bay, painting everything golden, I had this little moment of self-reflection. Back home, I’m always rushing – emails, deadlines, the lot. Here? Time stretched out like toffee. I caught myself grinning at how daft it was to need a holiday to remember that slowing down feels this good. No hikes up distant cliffs or pub crawls till late; just gentle evenings with a GandT from the local offy, maybe a slow meander to the chippy on Coppice Hill for seconds, then back to the apartment for telly and toast.

Even the rain – because, Wales – didn’t spoil it. We’d hunker down with the window cracked, listening to it patter, reading till our eyes drooped. Leaving felt like cutting a holiday short, but Saundersfoot’s got that pull. Proper reminder that sometimes the best break is the one where you barely move. Can’t wait to go back and do even less.