I finally made it to 148 Dukes Meadow in Saundersfoot after a bit of a faff on the drive down from Carmarthen. Picture this: I'm bombing along the A478, windows down, singing along to some rubbish 90s playlist, when – splash! – a massive puddle from last night's rain turns my shiny hire car into a makeshift raft. Sodden socks and a soggy crisp packet later, I pull up to the cottage, grinning like an idiot because, well, that's proper British holiday vibes right there.

The place is a belter, tucked away in a quiet spot just a short stroll from Saundersfoot's sandy beach. It's one of those classic Welsh cottages – stone walls, a cheeky little garden with pots overflowing with geraniums, and a front door that creaks just enough to make you feel like you're in a cosy Enid Blyton tale. I lug my bags in, dump them on the slate floor, and flop onto the squishy sofa with a cuppa. First impressions? Spot on. The views from the lounge window straight out to the sea are cracking – you can see the waves rolling in over St Bride's Bay, and on a good day, the Pembrokeshire Coast Path snaking off into the distance.

But this being Wales, the weather had other ideas. Day one dawned bright and breezy, perfect for a hike. I laced up my boots and headed straight for the coastal path from Saundersfoot Harbour. It's dead easy to find – just follow the signs past the donkey rides and ice cream stalls. The first stretch winds up past the cliffs, with gulls screeching overhead and wildflowers nodding in the wind. I was proper chuffed, puffing along feeling all virtuous, snapping pics of the rocky coves below. The sun was belting down, turning the sea that impossible shade of turquoise. About two miles in, near Coppet Hall beach, I spotted a seal bobbing about – or was it a bin bag? Either way, magic.

Then, classic British twist: clouds rolled in like uninvited guests. By lunch, it was chucking it down, hailstones the size of marbles pinging off my hood. Plans for a full afternoon yomp to Amroth? Scrubbed. I legged it back to Dukes Meadow, dripping puddles in the hallway and laughing at myself. "You daft sod," I muttered, peeling off wet layers. The cottage was a godsend – Aga on for toasties, telly flickering with some rubbish daytime quiz, and a hot shower that sorted me right out. Sat there with a brew, watching the rain lash the windows, I had a proper moment of reflection. Holidays like this remind you life's not about ticking off trails; it's the faff and the forcing you to slow down that sticks.

Day two, the weather played nice again – patchy blue skies, just enough breeze to keep it fresh. I ventured out for a shorter loop around Saundersfoot, up through the woods behind the village to the cliffs at the Wiseman's Bridge end. The path hugs the edge, all dramatic drops and hidden beaches you could have to yourself. I packed butties and proper thermos coffee this time, prepared like a Boy Scout. Halfway round, the mist snuck in, turning everything ethereal – you couldn't see further than 50 yards, but it was brilliant, like hiking through a cotton wool dream. Chuckled to myself when a rogue gust nearly bowled me over; I'm built like a pipe cleaner, me.

Come evening, back at the cottage, the drizzle returned, drumming on the roof like it owned the place. I lit the fire (gas, thank God – no faffing with logs), cracked open a bottle of local Tenby ale, and just watched the world go by. First impressions of 148 Dukes Meadow? It's the perfect base for these walk-and-weather capers – close enough to the action, snug enough when the skies turn grey. Three days in, and I was already plotting a return, mishaps and all.