We set off from Cardiff in light drizzle, the kind that promises to clear but never quite does, and made it to Porthcawl without incident until the satnav decided the cottage was somewhere behind a row of terraced houses. I pulled over, squinted at the map, and managed to clip the kerb with the rear wheel while reversing into a space that was clearly meant for a bicycle. Nothing dramatic, just enough to make the woman walking her dog give me the universal “tourists” look.

By the time we found Deluxe 3 the rain had eased, and the little decking caught the first proper patch of sun. The key was in the lockbox exactly where the host said it would be, and stepping inside felt like walking into someone’s well-kept beach flat rather than a holiday let. Pale walls, a decent sofa, and a kitchen that actually had sharp knives—already a win. We dumped the bags, opened the patio doors, and the smell of salt and chips drifted up from the front.

Lunch was the obvious first move. We wandered down to the seafront and found a little café tucked between the arcades that did proper Welsh rarebit with leeks and a side of chips. The portion was generous enough that we shared one plate and still felt full, watching the tide come in while a group of lads tried to fly a kite that kept dive-bombing the sand.

Back at the cottage the fridge was empty, so we drove the five minutes to the nearest supermarket and stocked up like we were planning a siege rather than three days away. I bought far too much bacon, a couple of local sausages, and some ready-made pastry because I had a vague notion of making pasties. That evening we cooked in the small but workable kitchen, the deck doors open so the evening air could keep the smoke alarm happy. The pasties came out a bit lopsided—one looked like it had been sat on—but tasted fine once drowned in brown sauce. We ate them at the little table on the deck, listening to the gulls argue over someone’s leftover chips on the promenade below.

The next morning we headed into Porthcawl’s weekly market, a cheerful sprawl of stalls under a canvas roof. We bought fresh cockles from a man who insisted we try them with vinegar on the spot, a wedge of Caerphilly, and a couple of Welsh cakes still warm from the griddle. I ate one while walking and managed to drop a crumb down my front, which the seagulls noticed immediately. By midday we were back at the cottage making bacon sandwiches on the slightly wobbly deck table, the kettle whistling like it had somewhere else to be.

That afternoon we popped into a cosy pub just off the high street for an early dinner. The menu was reassuringly traditional—steak and ale pie, fish and chips, scampi—and the portions arrived on plates that could double as serving platters. I ordered the pie and immediately regretted not going for the chips as well, but my partner kindly shared a few. We lingered over a pint of local ale, watching the regulars come and go, until the light started to fade and we realised we’d been there nearly two hours.

Our last full day was the most ambitious. I decided we should attempt a proper cooked breakfast using the market eggs and some mushrooms we’d bought the day before. The kitchen filled with the smell of frying, and for once nothing stuck to the pan. We ate slowly on the deck again, the sun properly out this time, and I caught myself thinking how rarely we manage this at home—sitting still, no screens, just the sound of waves and the occasional car on the road behind the cottages. It felt like a small luxury I’d almost forgotten how to enjoy.

By the time we packed the car the following morning, the mishap with the kerb already felt like part of the story rather than an annoyance. We left the cottage key in the box, waved at the neighbour walking her dog, and drove away with the windows down, the last of the Welsh cakes tucked into a paper bag for the journey home.