We’d only been on the road an hour when the sat-nav decided Tenby was best reached via a single-track lane that ended at a five-bar gate. By the time we’d reversed into a hedge and accepted we were lost, the September sun had already started to dip, and the boot was still full of damp coats from an earlier shower. We finally pulled up outside Sea Haze just as the light turned that soft, honey-gold colour you only seem to get on the Pembrokeshire coast in early autumn.

The cottage sat a short stroll from the North Beach, its whitewashed walls catching the last warmth of the day. Inside, everything felt bright and simple: pale sofas, a wood-burner ready for cooler evenings, and big windows that framed the sea like a painting. We dumped our bags, kicked off sandy shoes, and wandered straight out again before we’d even unpacked the kettle.

September had already thinned the crowds, so the beach felt almost private. The tide was out, leaving wide, firm sand perfect for an aimless wander, and the air carried that clean, salty edge that makes you breathe deeper without thinking. We found a bench near the old stone harbour wall and watched a handful of locals walking their dogs while the last swimmers dried off under striped towels. It struck me how different the same stretch of coast feels once the school holidays are over; everything slows down, and you notice the little things, like the way the cliffs change colour as the sun slips lower.

Back at Sea Haze we opened the patio doors and let the evening breeze wander through. From the small garden you could still hear the gentle hush of waves, and the fairy lights strung along the fence glowed against the deepening sky. We cooked a lazy pasta on the little electric hob, the sort of meal that tastes better simply because you’re not rushing. Later, wrapped in jumpers, we sat outside with mugs of tea and listened to the occasional late ferry horn drifting across the bay.

I’d come expecting a classic bucket-and-spade week, but the quieter season had already nudged us into a gentler rhythm. There was time to notice how the gorse on the clifftops had started to fade, and how the evening chill arrived earlier than it had in August. It felt oddly comforting to be here when the place was easing into its off-season self; less showy, perhaps, but somehow more honest. As the first stars pricked the sky above Tenby’s pastel houses, I realised we hadn’t checked a single “must-do” list all day, and that, for once, felt like the right way to start a holiday.