We’d barely turned off the main road into Saundersfoot when the satnav decided to send us down a lane so narrow our wing mirrors were practically kissing the hedgerows. A sudden thump and the awful sound of scraping metal told me I’d clipped something; turns out it was only an old wheelie bin that had wandered into the road, but by the time we’d reversed, righted it and apologised to a passing cyclist, we were both laughing like idiots. That set the tone for the whole stay at The Old Vicarage.

We pulled up outside the pale stone house just as the evening light was turning the sea a soft pewter. Before we’d even unpacked the car boot, a chap in a flat cap and a waxed jacket wandered over from next door, introduced himself as Dai the Post, and asked if we needed any “local intel.” Within minutes he’d told us the best pasty van was parked by the harbour steps on Tuesdays and that the tide times were pinned on the noticeboard outside the lifeboat station. His terrier, Biscuit, sniffed our ankles approvingly before trotting off.

We wandered down the short lane to the beach, still chuckling about the bin incident, and stopped at the little kiosk for two teas in polystyrene cups. The woman behind the counter—Glenys, she insisted—remembered our surname from the booking email and asked how the journey had been. When we mentioned the satnav mishap she roared with laughter, then launched into a story about the time her own satnav had directed her straight onto the sand at low tide. A couple of locals at the next table chipped in with their own tales, and before long we were swapping recommendations for the quietest stretch of sand and the quickest way to the chippy without getting caught by the one-way system.

Back at the house that evening, our neighbour on the other side, Mrs Probert, popped round with a small pot of Welsh cakes “just in case you haven’t had time to shop.” She stayed for a cuppa, told us about the village’s summer brass-band concerts on the green, and gently teased us for arriving with sand already in our shoes. It felt less like renting a cottage and more like being adopted for the weekend.

By the time we turned in, the mishap with the bin had become local legend; Dai texted to say he’d “heard about the dramatic arrival” and hoped we’d recovered. Lying in the big bay-window bedroom, listening to the soft hush of waves, I found myself wondering how many other visitors had been welcomed quite so quickly. Perhaps the best thing about The Old Vicarage isn’t the sea view or the cosy rooms, but the way Saundersfoot seems to fold you into its cast of characters before you’ve even unpacked.