We’d barely turned off the A477 when the satnav decided to send us down a lane that narrowed to something barely wider than the car. By the time we reached Milkwood Villa I was convinced the hedge had claimed a wing mirror, but we pulled up in one piece and the sea air hit us like a tonic. The cottage sat just a short stroll from the beach path, its windows already catching the late sun, and the first thing we did was drop the bags and wander straight into Saundersfoot for something to eat.

The little high street was busy with families and dogs, but we found a table outside The Harbour Bar and ordered the sort of generous portions that make you forget you’re still wearing travel clothes. Their fish and chips arrived steaming, the batter properly crisp, and we washed it down with local ale while watching boats bob in the harbour. By the time we wandered back, the fridge at the villa had been stocked with a few basics from the village shop, and we spent a contented half-hour chopping onions and trying to remember where we’d packed the corkscrew.

Next morning the sun was out, so we strolled down to the weekly market on the seafront. Stalls offered fresh cockles, laverbread, and fat Welsh cakes still warm from the griddle. We bought a paper bag of cockles for lunch and a round of Caerphilly to nibble with the view. Back at Milkwood Villa the kitchen felt suddenly ambitious; I decided we’d attempt laverbread cakes for supper. The recipe looked simple enough on my phone, but ten minutes in I’d managed to smoke up the extractor fan and coat the hob in something that resembled green cement. We opened every window, laughed until we coughed, and ended up eating the remaining Welsh cakes with a dollop of the cockles instead.

That evening we tried The Royal Oak, a short walk along the coastal path. Their menu leaned heavily on whatever the boats had landed that day, so we shared a bowl of mussels in cider and finished with sticky toffee pudding that could have fed four. Walking home under a pink sky, I caught myself thinking how rarely we cook properly at home, yet here the simplest ingredients felt like an event. The villa’s little patio caught the last warmth of the day, and we sat with mugs of tea until the midges found us.

By the third morning we’d learned our lesson: the village bakery opens early, so we grabbed pasties and ate them on the sand while the tide came in. Later we returned to the cottage kitchen for a gentler experiment—simply grilled mackerel with lemon and new potatoes from the market. It turned out perfectly, which felt like a small victory after the laverbread disaster. Sitting at the scrubbed table with the windows wide to the sea breeze, I realised these few days had been less about grand plans and more about letting good food and easy company set the pace.