We set off from Bristol with the boot crammed full of wellies, board games and enough snacks to survive a siege, only to realise halfway up the M4 that I’d left the cottage keys on the kitchen table. A quick detour via my sister’s house and a hastily scribbled note later, we finally rolled into the quiet lane behind Porthcawl’s seafront just as the light was softening.

Prestige 2 sat at the end of a short gravel drive, its wooden decking catching the last of the sun and offering a view straight across low dunes to the Bristol Channel. The moment we opened the door the smell of fresh linen and faintly of woodsmoke greeted us, and the children barrelled straight through to claim the twin room with the bunk beds. I lingered in the open-plan living space, noting how the cream sofas faced both the TV and the sliding doors, perfect for keeping an eye on small people while the kettle boiled.

Unpacking was the usual mild chaos: one child had packed only odd socks, the other had forgotten pyjamas entirely, and I spent ten minutes explaining why the decking wasn’t an ideal place to practise cartwheels. Once order was more or less restored we wandered the few hundred yards to the nearest beach. The tide was out, leaving wide stretches of damp sand perfect for collecting shells and the odd bit of driftwood that would, I was assured, become “the best sword ever”. Back at the lodge the little kitchen proved more than adequate; we rustled up pasta while the youngest attempted to name every bird that landed on the deck rail.

That first evening we ate outside until the midges reminded us whose garden it really was. Wrapped in borrowed blankets we watched the sky turn peach over the water, the children’s laughter carrying on the breeze. Later, tucked up on the sofas with mugs of tea, we played the world’s slowest game of Uno because someone kept making up new rules on the spot. I caught myself smiling at how little we needed: a warm lodge, a stretch of sand and the gentle permission to do nothing much at all.

The next morning began with the discovery that the ensuite shower had a mind of its own, spurting icy water before settling into something usable. Still, coffee on the deck in dressing gowns felt like a minor luxury. We strolled into town for pastries from the little bakery near the harbour, then returned to spread them on the picnic bench while the children invented an elaborate game involving pebbles and an old Frisbee. By mid-afternoon the clouds had rolled in, so we lit the wood burner—more for the crackle than the heat—and read on the sofas while rain tapped the roof.

What struck me most was how quickly the usual rush of life slipped away. There were no grand plans, just the rhythm of meals, walks and the occasional small drama when someone trod on a Lego piece left strategically in the hallway. By the final afternoon I found myself on the deck alone for five quiet minutes, listening to the distant hush of the waves and feeling oddly grateful for keys forgotten, odd socks and all the tiny, lovely disorder that had brought us here.