We set off in decent time, but the satnav had other ideas and sent us on a scenic detour through a lane so narrow I had to fold the wing mirrors in just to squeeze past a tractor. By the time we bumped into the gravel drive of Chepstow Lodge, the children were bickering about who’d sat in the “sunny seat” and I’d managed to spill half a takeaway coffee down my front. The front door key was tucked under the flowerpot exactly as promised, and when I pushed it open the smell of woodsmoke and fresh laundry met us like an old friend.

Inside, the lodge felt smaller than the photos but somehow cosier for it. The sitting room had a low ceiling and a wood-burner already laid, while the kitchen table was just big enough for four plates and a scatter of crayons. We’d barely dropped our bags before the youngest discovered the toy box under the stairs and began pulling out jigsaws missing odd pieces, which seemed fair since we’d brought half our own chaos with us. My partner flicked the kettle on while I opened the back door and let the cool Welsh air drift in. Beyond the small patio, a strip of grass sloped towards a wooden fence and, beyond that, the gentle rise of fields dotted with sheep.

We didn’t unpack properly; instead we wandered out to explore the immediate surroundings. A five-minute stroll along the lane brought us to a little honesty-box stall selling eggs and homemade jam, and we returned with a carton that rattled against my leg. Back at the lodge, lunch was a haphazard picnic on the living-room floor because the table was already claimed by colouring books and a half-built Lego tower. The children declared the sofa the “best ever” simply because it had cushions you could burrow under, and I found myself agreeing while brushing crumbs off my jeans.

Later, once the rain started, we lit the wood-burner and watched the flames catch. There’s something quietly satisfying about being forced indoors with nothing more pressing than toast and a board game whose rules nobody quite remembers. We played until someone (me) got the rules hopelessly wrong and was booed off the rug, which only made the children giggle harder. Outside, the lane had turned glossy with rain, and the hills beyond looked soft and close enough to touch.

By evening the lodge had settled into that comfortable disorder only family holidays manage: socks drying on the radiator, wellies by the door, and a faint smell of sausages from the grill. I stood for a moment at the window, mug in hand, listening to the low murmur of bedtime stories from the next room. Three days suddenly felt both far too short and perfectly enough.