We set off from Cardiff on a Friday lunchtime with the usual optimistic plan to arrive in good time for a cuppa, but somewhere near Margam the sat-nav decided we needed a quick detour through a farm track. Ten minutes later we were reversing out of a gateway while a herd of curious sheep watched on, and by the time we pulled up outside Cabin No. 2 the kettle was already sounding like the best idea in the world. The cabin itself sits on a quiet slope just outside Port Talbot, half-hidden behind a fringe of ferns and silver birch, and the moment we stepped inside the smell of clean wood and faint wood-smoke wrapped around us like an old jumper.

Straight away we unpacked the cool-bag we’d brought from the market in Neath that morning: a crusty loaf, a wedge of local Caerphilly, thick slices of Carmarthen ham and a punnet of early strawberries. We spread it all on the little kitchen table while the kettle boiled, and the first proper meal of the trip turned out to be the simplest—doorstop sandwiches eaten on the tiny deck with our feet up on the rail. The view rolled down toward the bay, the air carrying that soft salt edge you only really notice when you stop rushing.

By early evening we’d walked the half-mile into the village and found The Llandarcy Arms already busy with Friday locals. We squeezed onto stools at the bar and ordered plates of steak-and-ale pie with mash that arrived steaming and properly generous. The landlord’s dog wandered over for scraps and we ended up chatting about the best places for fresh fish around here. Someone mentioned a little smokehouse just off the main road, and before we knew it we had directions scribbled on a beer mat for the next morning.

Saturday started with a proper fry-up attempt in the cabin’s tiny kitchen. I managed to burn the bacon slightly while trying to flip eggs one-handed, but the slightly charred edges actually worked with the thick slices of bread we’d bought the day before. We ate at the open door, watching a robin hop along the deck rail, and decided the smokehouse could wait until after a second coffee. When we finally found it, tucked behind a row of terraced houses, the owner was just bringing out trays of oak-smoked mackerel and salmon. We bought a small fillet each, plus a jar of pickled cockles, and carried them back in a brown paper bag that grew warm in the sunshine.

Lunch became an impromptu picnic on the cabin steps: the smoked fish flaked onto oatcakes with a dab of the cockles and a squeeze of lemon from the tree in the garden. It felt almost too tidy for something we’d thrown together, and for a moment I found myself wondering why we bother with fancy restaurants when simple things like this taste better outdoors.

That evening we returned to the village pub, this time for their Saturday pie-and-mash special and a pint of the local ale. The dining room was full of families and walkers comparing notes on coastal paths, and the chatter made the cabin feel even cosier when we wandered home under a soft pink sky. Back indoors we tried to recreate a Welsh rarebit with the cheese left over from Friday, but the grill in the cabin is temperamental; it browned one corner beautifully and left the rest pale. We ate it anyway, laughing at the uneven patches, and agreed the imperfection somehow suited the whole weekend.

Sunday morning brought the slow ritual of packing up while the last of the strawberries disappeared between us. The mishap on the way in already felt like part of the story, and as we locked the door I caught myself thinking how little we’d needed beyond a few good meals, a friendly bar and the quiet slope of ferns outside the window.