We’d barely made it off the M4 when the sat-nav decided we were better off in a field near Kidwelly. One wrong turn, two grumpy sheep and a hedge that looked far narrower on Google Maps later, we finally pulled up outside 81 Alban Road with the car coated in dust and our nerves in tatters.

The cottage itself was exactly as promised: a neat little semi tucked behind the dunes, the sea just a five-minute shuffle down the lane. We were still hauling bags from the boot when our neighbour popped her head over the low wall. “You’ve picked the right week,” she announced, waving a wooden spoon. “The tide’s been throwing up proper cockles.” Before I could answer, she’d disappeared and returned with a chipped mug of tea that tasted faintly of mint and gossip.

Her name was Glenys, and within ten minutes I knew more about the street than its own postcode. “Number 17’s been empty since Dai moved to his daughter’s in Burry Port,” she said, nodding towards a faded blue door. “Mind you, his Jack Russell still visits every Thursday for scraps.” I was about to ask about bins when another voice cut in—this time from the garden path of number 79.

“Glenys giving you the full tour already?” It was Emyr, retired postman, cardigan buttoned right to the top despite the mild evening. He carried a fishing rod that looked older than both of us. “If you’re after mackerel, best try off the old stone jetty tomorrow morning. Mind the seventh step—it wobbles.” Emyr chuckled at his own warning, then offered to show us the quickest way down to the beach without getting our shoes full of marram grass.

By the time the sun slipped behind the dunes, we’d collected three more characters. There was Bethan from the corner shop who insisted we try her bara brith “or I’ll only have to bin it,” and young Rhys, still in school uniform, who solemnly informed us the best rock-pooling happened at the far end of the bay “where the dogs don’t go.” Each conversation felt like being handed another piece of the village puzzle.

I’d come expecting peace and quiet; instead I found myself chatting on the doorstep in borrowed wellies, learning tide times from strangers who already felt like slightly eccentric relatives. It struck me, as Glenys waved us off with another spoon, that sometimes the real holiday begins before you’ve even unpacked the kettle.