We set off from Bristol at the crack of dawn, convinced the satnav knew a shortcut that would shave an hour off the trip. Three hours later we were still crawling through roadworks outside Swansea, the kids bickering in the back and the dog attempting to sit on the handbrake. By the time we finally turned off the coastal road into Saundersfoot, my nerves were frayed and my patience thinner than the last teabag in the glovebox.

The satnav’s triumphant “You have arrived” came just as we realised we’d missed the tiny turning for Sea Haze and were now wedged nose-first into a neighbour’s driveway. Cue frantic reversing while a helpful local in a flat cap watched from his garden, clearly enjoying the free entertainment. We finally pulled up outside the little white cottage, slightly red-faced but grateful to be stationary at last.

Stepping out, the first thing that hit us was the salt on the air—sharp, clean, and instantly calming after the motorway fug. Sea Haze sits just a short stroll from the sand, and even from the doorstep we could hear the soft rush of waves and the occasional gull arguing with a fishing boat. The front garden was a neat square of gravel bordered by lavender, the kind of understated touch that makes you feel instantly at home rather than on show.

Inside, the open-plan living space felt bigger than the photos suggested. Pale wooden floors, squashy sofas, and a wood-burner already laid ready for later. We dumped bags in the bedrooms—simple, spotless, with crisp white bedding and those blackout blinds that actually work—then flung open the patio doors to let the breeze in. From the little deck you can see straight over rooftops to the curve of the bay, and the kids were already negotiating who’d get the top bunk so they could watch the sunset from their window.

What struck me most, though, was how quickly the journey stress melted away. One minute we were bickering about parking, the next we were wandering down the lane in flip-flops, ice creams in hand, simply because the beach was close enough to reach before the cones melted. Saundersfoot’s little harbour was busy with day-trippers and dinghies, yet it never felt frantic—just cheerfully bustling. Back at the cottage, we sat on the deck with mugs of tea as the light faded, listening to the tide turn and feeling properly arrived.

It’s funny how a wrong turning and a neighbour’s amused grin can become part of the story so quickly. By the end of that first evening, the mishaps already felt like they belonged to someone else’s holiday, not ours.