I’ll never forget the drive down to St Davids – a proper Welsh adventure that started with me taking a wrong turn just past Haverfordwest, ending up on some narrow lane that had more sheep than tarmac. Typical me, faffing about with the satnav while the kids in the back moaned about needing the loo. But honestly, that little detour was a blessing in disguise; we stumbled on a field bursting with wildflowers, and by the time we rolled into the hamlet a mile from the city, the anticipation was buzzing. I could practically taste the sea air already.

Pulling up to our two-bed cottage, I was smitten straight away. Tucked in this peaceful spot amid rolling fields and endless skies, it felt like we’d slipped into a postcard. The kind of place that whispers “relax” from the moment you step out of the car – simple, cosy, with a garden that begged for loafing about. No grand entrances or fuss; just pure, unhurried charm.

We’d come for the joy of doing bugger all, and boy, did it deliver. Our first morning, I claimed a sun-damp chair in the garden with a mug of tea and a dog-eared paperback – some trashy thriller I’d been saving. The views stretched out towards the rugged coastline, all hazy blues and greens, with the distant crash of waves like white noise for the soul. The kids pottered off to poke around the wild patches, coming back with stories of butterflies and secret dens, while I did precisely nothing but watch clouds drift. It was bliss.

Lazy days blurred into one another. Afternoons meant sprawling on blankets in the grass, munching pasties from the city’s bakery – we’d amble the mile into St Davids for those, weaving past the cathedral’s ancient spires and nipping into indie shops for fudge or a quirky postcard. But we never stayed long; the pull back to the cottage was too strong. Evenings were for barbecues that were more char than chef (my speciality), followed by board games under the fading light, with the open sky turning pink above us. One night, a fox trotted right through the garden – cue squeals and me pretending I wasn’t a bit spooked.

There was this gentle moment of self-reflection one drizzly afternoon, curled up by the window with the rain pattering down. I realised how rare it is to just *be* – no schedules, no scrolling, no rush. Back home, life’s a whirlwind of school runs and deadlines, but here, time stretched like toffee. I caught myself smiling at nothing, feeling properly recharged. We did dip out to Whitesands Beach once, just a couple of miles away, for a windy paddle and sandcastles that the tide claimed quick as a wink. And the coastal path nearby? We wandered a stretch at sunset, puffing up the hills but mostly just breathing it all in.

Honestly, it was the perfect antidote to everything. If you’re after slowing down in the best possible way – surrounded by Pembrokeshire’s magic – this is your spot. I’m already plotting a return.