We’d barely made it off the A477 before the satnav decided we were already at our destination, which was a touch optimistic given we were still two miles from Tenby. By the time we trundled down the lane to 1 Bryn Beudy, the boys were squabbling about who got the top bunk and I was muttering about needing a cuppa. The key safe was exactly where the owner had promised, yet somehow my fingers went numb with the excitement of finally arriving, and the little slip of paper with the code fluttered straight into a rosemary bush. Five minutes of gentle swearing later we were in, shoes kicked off, and the kettle was on.

The cottage felt instantly welcoming. Pale walls, a wood burner already laid ready, and that unmistakable seaside smell drifting in through the open back door. From the kitchen window we could see the rooftops of Tenby and, beyond them, the glint of the sea catching the late afternoon light. The boys claimed the bedrooms in record time while I unpacked the essentials: teabags, milk, and the emergency chocolate stash. Within half an hour the living room was a sprawl of beach towels, slightly damp trainers and one very sandy dog.

We didn’t need grand plans for the first evening. A short stroll down the footpath took us onto the sands just as the tide was turning, the air still warm enough for bare feet. The boys raced ahead collecting bits of driftwood while my partner and I ambled behind, pointing out the familiar shape of Caldey Island sitting quietly on the horizon. Back at the cottage we grilled sausages on the little patio barbecue and ate them straight from the tray, elbows on knees, sauce on chins. It was the sort of meal that tastes better simply because you’re eating it outside with salt on your lips.

Later, once the children were tucked up, I sat by the open door with a glass of wine and listened to the quiet. Somewhere a blackbird was still singing, and the distant hush of waves felt close enough to touch. I found myself thinking how easy it is, on these short breaks, to forget that you don’t actually need much more than a kettle, a view and people you like being around. The mishap with the key already felt like part of the story rather than a bother, and as the light faded over the garden I realised that sometimes the best holidays start with nothing more complicated than getting slightly lost and then finding exactly where you’re meant to be.