I finally made it to Pembrokeshire after what felt like the world's most faffing drive down from the Midlands, cursing every tractor that trundled along the A40 like it owned the road. It was a drizzly Friday afternoon in late spring, the kind where the Welsh sky can't decide if it's going to chuck it down or just tease you with a bit of mist. I'd booked Osprey 6, this cosy little cottage right in the heart of Tenby, for a quick three-day getaway – no grand plans, just me, a stack of books, and hopefully some sea air to sort my head out. But of course, nothing's ever straightforward when you're knackered from the wheel.

The sat-nav, that traitorous git, decided to have a midlife crisis just as I hit the narrow lanes leading into town. It kept directing me down one-way streets that weren't one-way at all, or so it seemed, and I ended up doing a three-point turn in front of a gaggle of tourists clutching fish and chips, all while my hatchback scraped perilously close to a stone wall. "Recalculating," it chirped cheerfully, as if it hadn't just tried to bin my wing mirror. In the chaos, I knocked my thermos of tea all over the passenger seat – a proper mess, steaming Earl Grey soaking into the upholstery like I'd auditioned for a disaster movie. Laughing at myself through gritted teeth, I pulled over, mopped up with a service station napkin, and spotted the cottage sign at last: Osprey 6, tucked away on a quiet street just a stone's throw from Tenby's vibrant harbour.

Stumbling out with my bags, still smelling faintly of spilt brew, I fumbled the key safe code – third time lucky, thank God – and pushed open the door to instant bliss. The place was an absolute gem, all shipshape and welcoming, like it'd been waiting just for me. Fresh scones and a jar of clotted cream sat on the kitchen table, a proper Welsh touch that made my stomach rumble. The open-plan living area had this massive window framing the rooftops and a glimpse of the sea beyond – Caldey Island winking in the distance on a clearer patch of sky. I dumped my stuff and flopped onto the squashy sofa, feet up on the coffee table, feeling the tension melt away faster than my spilled tea had dried.

First impressions? Bloody brilliant. The cottage screamed "holiday heaven" without trying too hard – wood-beamed ceilings, a wood burner begging for a lazy evening (though it was far too mild for that yet), and a kitchen kitted out with everything from cafetière to quirky mugs painted with puffins. I wandered upstairs to the bedroom, beams low enough to remind me I'm not as nimble as I like to think, and cracked the window to let in that salty Tenby breeze. Down below, the harbour was alive with fishing boats bobbing, gulls squawking for scraps, and families ambling along the walls. I nipped out for a quick recce, past the pastel-coloured houses that make Tenby look like a postcard, and grabbed fish and chips from a spot on the front – proper batter, not that greasy rubbish.

Sitting on the cottage doorstep as the sun dipped, munching away with vinegar dripping down my chin, I had one of those gentle moments where you realise life's little cock-ups are what make the good bits shine. That daft drive and thermos fiasco? Worth it for this – a perfect nook in Pembrokeshire, where the chaos of arrival flips straight into "ahh, this is the life." Can't wait to wake up to it all over again tomorrow.