We’d been on the road since half-seven that morning, and by the time we turned off the A477 the car was full of empty coffee cups and the faint smell of sausage rolls. Tenby looked exactly as I’d hoped when we finally crested the hill: pastel houses stacked above a crescent of sand, the sea glinting like someone had shaken glitter over it. We were both tired and a bit giggly, the way you get after too many miles and too many wrong turns on country lanes.

The mishap arrived just as we reached the little lane behind the property. I’d been so busy peering at the satnav that I missed the low wall on my left, clipping the wing mirror with a soft but expensive-sounding crunch. Nothing dramatic, just enough to make us both wince and then burst out laughing because, really, what else can you do after four hours in traffic? We parked crookedly, mirror now pointing at the sky like it was waving for help, and hauled the bags up the short path to Summerhouse.

The cottage sat right where the map had promised, tucked behind a low hedge with a view straight over the rooftops to the beach. The key was in the lockbox exactly as described, and the door opened into a bright, open room that still smelled faintly of fresh paint and sea air. I dropped my bag and walked straight to the window, because the pull of that view was stronger than the need to unpack. Below us the sand was already dotted with families and dogs, and the tide was out far enough to leave wide, wet stretches perfect for rock-pooling later.

We wandered through the rest of the place in that slightly dazed holiday way, opening cupboards and testing taps like we were checking everything still worked after our long absence. The kitchen was small but perfectly judged, with enough room for two people to bump hips while making tea, and the little patio out the back caught the afternoon sun. From there you could hear the waves properly, that soft, constant hush that makes everything else feel far away.

After the drive and the mirror incident, it felt oddly luxurious just to stand still. I found myself thinking about how rarely we manage this: stopping properly, not rushing to the next thing on the list. The cottage seemed to understand that. It didn’t try to be grand or showy; it simply offered a comfortable perch above the beach and let the view do the rest. We made tea in mismatched mugs, carried them outside, and sat watching the last of the day’s light slide across the water. The damaged mirror could wait until tomorrow. For now, Tenby and the cottage had already done their job.