We'd barely made it out of the car before the mishap struck. I'd insisted on grabbing fish and chips from the harbour on the way to the cottage, thinking it would be a proper welcome dinner, only for the paper parcel to split clean down the middle on the doorstep. Vinegar-soaked chips tumbled across the gravel while seagulls watched from the fence like they knew this was coming. My partner just laughed and fetched a dustpan, and that set the tone for the whole stay: everything revolved around food, and nothing quite went to plan.

The cottage itself was perfect for it. A short stroll from the beach path, with a kitchen that felt like it had been used by people who actually cooked rather than just boiled kettles. We unpacked the bits we'd brought from the little supermarket in town, then headed straight back out for proper supplies. Tenby's market stalls were still busy even late in the afternoon, so we picked up fresh cockles, a wedge of Welsh cheese, and some leeks that looked too good to waste. Back at the cottage we attempted a sort of makeshift chowder, which tasted better than it looked, mainly because we kept adding butter whenever it seemed thin.

The next morning we wandered into town for breakfast, settling on a café near the harbour that served proper laverbread with bacon. It was rich and oddly comforting, the sort of thing you only order when you're on holiday and nobody's watching your cholesterol. We lingered over coffee, watching boats bob about, then stocked up on pasties from the bakery for a beach picnic later. The walk back felt longer with the bags, but the sea air helped.

By evening we were ready for a pub. The local one just up from the cottage had that perfect mix of locals and visitors, and their menu leaned heavily into whatever had come off the boats that day. I went for the seafood pie, which arrived bubbling and was gone before I'd even buttered my roll. My partner tried the Welsh rarebit, declared it the best version they'd had, and then we both admitted we were already thinking about breakfast again.

It struck me, halfway through a second pint, how much of the trip was being measured in meals rather than miles. We'd meant to explore more, but every plan seemed to circle back to what we'd eat next or whether the cottage kitchen could handle another ambitious attempt. The leaky fish-and-chip bag at the start had been a warning, really. This wasn't a holiday for rushing about. It was for markets and pub corners and slightly overambitious cooking experiments that somehow still tasted of the sea.