We’d been on the road since half seven that morning, crawling through traffic on the M4 and then winding down those single-track lanes that always seem to appear the moment you’re desperate for a wee. By the time we reached Saundersfoot the car was a mess of crisp packets and empty coffee cups, and I was convinced the satnav had developed a personal grudge. The final turn into the lane should’ve been straightforward, but I managed to clip the wing mirror on a low stone wall while trying to let a tractor past. Nothing dramatic, just enough of a crunch to make us both wince and then laugh like idiots while the farmer gave us a cheerful wave.

The cottage itself sat just a short stroll from the beach, tucked behind a neat hedge with a gravel drive that crunched under our trainers. From the outside it looked exactly like the pictures: pale stone walls, a slate roof, and those big windows that promised plenty of light. We fumbled with the key safe for a minute—my fault again, I’d written the code on the back of a receipt that promptly blew away—before the door finally swung open and the smell of fresh linen and faint woodsmoke greeted us.

Inside, the space felt instantly welcoming. The kitchen was properly stocked with the basics, and someone had left a little welcome card with local recommendations scribbled on it. We dumped our bags in the hallway and wandered through the four bedrooms, claiming the one with the sea glimpse for ourselves. From the upstairs window we could just make out the curve of the bay, the tide already turning and the first few dog-walkers appearing on the sand.

After the long drive it was a relief to simply stand still. We wandered down to the beach with takeaway teas from the kiosk near the car park, shoes kicked off almost immediately. The sand was still warm from the afternoon sun, and watching the kids chase the waves felt like the first proper exhale of the holiday. Back at the cottage we grilled some sausages on the little patio barbecue, the smell drifting over the hedge while gulls wheeled overhead.

Later, with the windows open and the sound of the sea drifting in, I found myself thinking how easy it is to forget what a proper reset feels like. The wing mirror would need sorting eventually, but for now the cottage felt like exactly the right place to be—close enough to the water that you could hear the tide, far enough from everyday life that the journey already seemed worth it.