We set off from home at some ungodly hour, convinced the satnav would spare us the usual A-road purgatory, only for it to reroute us through a string of roundabouts that seemed to multiply with every mile. By the time we finally trundled into Saundersfoot, the car was thick with the smell of lukewarm pasties and the faint tension that comes from three adults pretending they aren’t arguing about whose turn it is to navigate. The turning for Ridgeway View sits just above the village, and we nearly sailed straight past it because the sign is half-hidden behind a hedge that clearly enjoys its privacy. I slammed on the brakes a touch too enthusiastically, sending a half-drunk bottle of water spinning under the passenger seat, and we arrived in the driveway with the sort of lurch that makes you wonder whether the neighbours are already taking notes.

The cottage itself looked exactly as the pictures had promised: pale stone, neat little windows, and a wooden bench positioned for maximum sea-gazing. We tumbled out stiff-legged, stretching like cats that had spent too long in a box, and the first thing that hit us wasn’t the view but the quiet. After hours of engine hum and questionable radio, the only sounds were gulls and the distant clink of rigging from the harbour below. I fumbled with the key safe, punched in the code twice before getting it right, and stepped inside to the faint scent of woodsmoke and lemon cleaner. Someone had left a pint of milk in the fridge and a note wishing us “a smashing stay,” which felt both thoughtful and slightly nosy in the nicest possible way.

We didn’t unpack straight away. Instead we wandered straight through to the back garden, where the view opened up like someone had pulled a curtain. Saundersfoot beach curved away beneath us, a pale strip already dotted with a few hardy dog-walkers despite the breeze. The tide was out, revealing the usual scatter of rock pools and seaweed, and I caught myself thinking how small our usual worries seemed when faced with that much sky. My partner pointed out the little path that leads down to the village in under ten minutes, already planning a pint at the harbour, while I was still mentally replaying our dramatic arrival and wondering why I always manage to look like I’ve never driven a car before when anyone might be watching.

Later, after we’d claimed beds and argued amiably about which room had the better pillow situation, we sat on that bench with takeaway chips from the village. The chips were perfect—crisp, salty, wrapped in paper that went translucent with vinegar—and we ate them in companionable silence while the light faded over Carmarthen Bay. I found myself reflecting, not for the first time, that the best bits of a holiday often happen in the gaps between plans: the wrong turn that makes you notice a view, the spilled water that forces everyone to laugh instead of bicker. Ridgeway View hadn’t done anything flashy to impress us; it had simply been there, solid and welcoming, after a long day that started with too many roundabouts and ended with the sea spread out like a welcome mat.