I’ll never forget the drive down to Saundersfoot – we’d packed the car to bursting with crisps, books and enough tea bags to last a nuclear winter, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into a cheeky detour through some narrow lanes that had me white-knuckling the wheel. A sheep decided to photobomb our progress by wandering right in front of us, forcing an emergency stop that sent the kids’ snacks flying everywhere. Laugh? We nearly cried. But as we crested the hill and Saundersfoot came into view, that harbour glinting under the sun and the sea breeze whipping in, all the faff melted away. I was buzzing with that proper holiday anticipation – you know, the kind where you imagine lounging about with zero agenda.

Pulling up to the property, a cosy detached cottage with a welcoming vibe and those sea glimpses from the garden that promised pure bliss, we were smitten straight off. No grand entrance needed; it just felt right, like slipping into your favourite slippers after a long day. We dumped the bags and cracked open a brew on the patio, the kids already kicking a ball about while I soaked it all in. First impressions? Spot on. It was the perfect spot for what we craved most: doing sod all, and loving every minute.

The joy of those lazy cottage days was something else. Mornings kicked off slow – no alarms, just the sound of gulls and waves lapping in the distance. I’d potter out to the garden with a mug of tea and my battered copy of a detective novel I’d been meaning to crack for months. That private lawn became our kingdom: sprawled on blankets with the sun warming our faces, watching clouds drift by like they had nowhere to be. The kids built epic sandcastles in the nearby beach (it’s only a hop down the path), but mostly they joined me in the art of faffing – chasing butterflies or just lying there inventing daft stories about the boats bobbing in the bay.

Afternoons blurred into napping, nibbling on pasties from the village shop, and more reading. I’d glance up from my book now and then, catching the harbour lights twinkling as the sun dipped low. No rushing to tick off sights – Saundersfoot’s got that gentle pull with its little beach café for ice creams and the odd amble along the promenade, but we barely bothered. It was all about slowing right down, letting the rhythm of the tides set the pace. One evening, as the sky turned that impossible pink over the water, I had a proper moment of self-reflection, sat there with my feet up: when did life get so frantic? This holiday was a reminder that the best bits are the quiet ones, the ones where you recharge by doing precisely nowt.

We wandered into the village once or twice for fish and chips wrapped in paper, eaten on a bench overlooking the sea, grease dripping contentedly down our chins. Laughter came easy – like when I tried “helping” with the kids’ den-building in the garden and ended up tangled in a makeshift tent of towels. But mostly, it was peaceful. No plans, no pressure, just us and the simple magic of Saundersfoot. Heading home, I felt lighter, already plotting a return. Sometimes, the greatest adventure is pressing pause.