We’d barely made it off the M4 before the satnav decided Saundersfoot was somewhere near Swansea docks, so by the time we pulled into the little lane behind Ty Landsker we were both hot, thirsty and mildly bickering about whose idea the “shortcut” had been. The cottage sat just far enough back from the beach road to feel private, yet close enough that we could already smell salt on the breeze. I lugged the bags inside, flicked on the kettle, and promptly tripped over my own flip-flop, sending a mug of tea across the kitchen tiles like an unwanted house-warming gift. Ten minutes later, still blotting the floor with yesterday’s newspaper, we agreed the day was too bright to waste indoors.

The tide was well out, so we set off along the coastal path towards Wiseman’s Bridge, trainers already dusted with warm sand. Gulls wheeled overhead, and every so often a rogue wave sent a cool spray across the rocks that made us yelp and laugh in equal measure. Halfway there we met an elderly couple with a terrier who insisted the weather would hold “at least until tea-time,” which in Wales is basically a legally binding forecast. We pressed on, stopping to watch paddle-boarders wobble past the old stone harbour wall, the whole scene so postcard-perfect that I felt an unexpected twinge of guilt for every time I’d moaned about British summers.

By early afternoon the promised blue sky had turned a shade greyer, and fat drops began spotting the path. We ducked under a handy gorse bush with our packed pasties, watching the sea darken and listening to the sudden hush that falls just before a shower. The rain didn’t last long, but it was enough to send us back towards the cottage with slightly damp shoulders and the beginnings of a plan to try the same walk again tomorrow, this time with waterproofs and fewer illusions about meteorological cooperation. Back at Ty Landsker the kettle went on once more—this time without incident—and we sat by the open door listening to the waves while the clouds drifted out to sea again.