We’d barely made it out of Carmarthen when the sat-nav decided the scenic route meant a single-track lane that narrowed with every bend. By the time we spotted the sign for Saundersfoot we were doing twelve miles an hour behind a tractor, the boot full of bags that kept sliding forward whenever we braked. The final straw came when I reversed into the cottage’s little gravel pull-in and clipped the wheelie bin; it toppled with a theatrical clang and sent a family of seagulls flapping skyward like they’d been waiting for the cue.

Still red-faced, we hauled everything inside and stood in the open-plan kitchen, breathing in that unmistakable first-holiday smell of clean towels and faint woodsmoke. The fridge was already stocked with a pint of milk and a loaf from the village shop, and the welcome note promised a couple of local treats in the cupboard. After the journey neither of us fancied cooking straight away, so we wandered the five-minute stroll to the harbour, shoes crunching on the damp sand at low tide.

The Captain’s Table was doing a roaring trade in crab sandwiches, so we nabbed a table on the terrace and watched the fishing boats bob while demolishing thick granary bread piled high with sweet white meat and a generous slick of lemon mayo. My partner declared it “the best thing since the M4,” which is high praise when you’ve spent three hours in traffic. We followed it with a round of local ale—something hoppy from a brewery just outside Tenby—then ambled back along the front, pausing at the little Saturday market stall that sets up near the car park.

We came away with a paper bag of cockles, a wedge of Caerphilly, and a punnet of early strawberries that already smelled like summer. Back at the cottage the light was fading, so we decided the sensible thing was to attempt a “proper Welsh tea” using what we’d bought. I volunteered to make laverbread cakes, having once watched a YouTube video and therefore considered myself an expert. Ten minutes later the kitchen looked like a science experiment gone wrong: the mixture clung to the pan like chewing gum and the smoke alarm gave a half-hearted chirp of protest. We opened the door to the little patio, waved a tea towel about, and ended up eating slightly charred patties with the rest of the crab from lunch and a dollop of the Caerphilly melted over the top. Not exactly Instagram-worthy, but the strawberries, eaten straight from the punnet while sitting on the step, tasted like victory.

Later, bellies full and slightly sticky, we wandered down again for a nightcap at the Royal Oak. The pub was warm, low-ceilinged, and full of locals swapping stories about the day’s catch. We ordered two halves of stout and a sharing board of cured meats and pickles, then sat in companionable silence listening to the murmur of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter from the dartboard corner.

As we walked the short stretch back, the tide was creeping in under a sky the colour of wet slate. I caught myself thinking how easy it is, after months of spreadsheets and school runs, to forget that holidays don’t need to be flawless to feel restorative. A toppled bin, a smoky kitchen, and a crab sandwich eaten with sand between your toes had already done more for us than any carefully planned itinerary.