We set off from Cardiff on a drizzly Thursday afternoon, the boot packed with the usual chaos of wellies, board games and far too many snacks. Twenty minutes in, I realised I’d left the house keys on the kitchen table, which meant a quick U-turn and an extra round of traffic on the M4. By the time we pulled up outside Cabin No. 5 at Salt and Fern Cabins, the rain had cleared and the valley looked almost smug in the late sun.

The cabin itself was smaller than the photos suggested, tucked into a little clearing of birch and bracken just outside Port Talbot. A wooden porch wrapped around the front, complete with a slightly wonky bench that creaked whenever anyone sat on it. Inside, the living space was all open plan: a wood-burner in one corner, a squashy sofa facing a modest telly, and a kitchen counter that doubled as dining table when we pulled out the stools. The children immediately claimed the mezzanine bedroom above the lounge, while my partner and I took the ground-floor double that looked straight out into the trees.

Our first evening was the kind of gentle disorder that always happens when you’re trying to “keep it simple.” I’d forgotten matches, so we spent ten minutes hunting through drawers until we found a half-used box left by the last guests. Once the fire was crackling, we cooked sausages and beans on the two-ring hob, the smell drifting out of the open door while the kids chased each other round the clearing with sticks they insisted were magic wands. After supper we sat on the porch with mugs of tea, watching the light fade and listening to the occasional hoot of an owl somewhere up the slope.

Next morning we woke to birdsong and the sound of the kettle clicking on downstairs. Breakfast was toast and jam eaten outside on the bench, even though the wood was still damp from overnight dew. The children wanted to “explore,” so we followed the narrow path that led from the back of the cabin down to a small stream. They spent a happy hour building a dam with pebbles while I sat on a fallen log, half-reading a paperback and half-watching to make sure nobody slipped in. Later we drove the short distance into Port Talbot for fresh bread and a couple of local ciders from the corner shop, then came straight back to eat lunch on the grass.

By the second afternoon the cabin had started to feel lived-in. Coats were draped over chair backs, wellies lined up by the door, and the little fridge was stocked with the essentials. We played an old board game we’d found on the shelf—missing two pieces, naturally—and laughed when the youngest insisted the rules didn’t apply to her. In the evening we lit the fire again and toasted marshmallows on skewers, the sticky mess somehow ending up on every surface. I caught myself wondering why we bother with grand holidays when something this ordinary can feel like such a treat.

On the final morning we lingered over coffee, reluctant to pack. The children collected pine cones to take home, and I stood for a moment on the porch listening to the quiet. It struck me how quickly the small things—damp socks drying by the stove, the sound of rain on the roof, the shared scramble for the last biscuit—become the bits you remember most. We left the key in the lockbox, waved goodbye to the birch trees, and drove back down the valley with the windows open, already talking about when we might return.