We’d barely made it out of the car at The Sandcastle when the wheelie suitcase decided to stage its own rebellion. One rogue wheel caught the edge of the gravel and sent the case careering straight into a neatly trimmed box hedge, scattering a shower of tiny leaves and my dignity across the drive. By the time I’d wrestled it upright, a woman in a bright yellow mac was already leaning on the low stone wall, arms folded, watching the performance with open amusement.

“First time in Saundersfoot, is it?” she asked, as if the suitcase fiasco had been her cue. Her name was Glenys, and she ran the little honesty-box stall that sold fresh cockles just up the lane. Before I could answer she’d already told me the tide times, the best bench for watching the fishing boats, and that the seagulls round here had “no respect for personal space whatsoever.” I laughed, promised to keep my chips covered, and felt the holiday properly begin.

Inside, The Sandcastle smelled of toast and sea air. From the kitchen window I could see the curve of the beach and the low row of pastel houses that line the front. I’d only just put the kettle on when there was a polite tap at the back door. It was Glenys again, this time with a small paper bag of cockles “on the house, mind, for surviving the hedge.” She was followed shortly by her neighbour, a retired fisherman called Dai who’d spotted the out-of-town number plate and popped round to check we hadn’t brought any London traffic with us. Within ten minutes they were both perched on the little bench outside, cups of tea in hand, giving me the full Saundersfoot briefing.

Dai explained that the best crab sandwiches came from the kiosk at the far end of the slipway, but only if you got there before the school run finished. Glenys added that the tide would be perfect for a late-afternoon paddle and that the rock pools just past the lifeboat station were “still decent if you don’t mind getting your knees wet.” Every sentence came with a story: the time the lifeboat had to rescue a stranded paddleboarder who’d mistaken a buoy for a selfie spot, the annual sandcastle competition that ended in a three-way tie because nobody could agree on what counted as a turret. I found myself leaning against the doorframe, tea going cold, completely caught up.

By the time they left, the sun was already sliding behind the headland and the beach was emptying. I wandered down with my shoes in one hand, letting the cool sand work its way between my toes. The little mishap with the suitcase already felt like part of the welcome committee. Somewhere behind me a voice called, “Mind the gulls!” and I smiled without turning round.