We’d barely left the M4 when the satnav decided to send us down a single-track lane lined with brambles and the odd rogue sheep. I’d been sure the turning for Superior 2 was just after the roundabout, but a quick wrong turn had us reversing into someone’s driveway while a tractor waited patiently behind us. The whole episode felt like the cottage itself was playing a gentle game of hide-and-seek.

By the time we found the right gate, the drizzle had turned the gravel into a muddy welcome mat. Superior 2 sat quietly at the end of a short track, its decking still glistening from the rain. The owner had left the key in a lockbox tucked behind a pot of rosemary, and the first thing that struck me was how the place felt both brand new and somehow rooted in the landscape, as if it had grown there rather than been built. Inside, the open-plan living space stretched towards a wide window that framed nothing more dramatic than a field and a line of wind-bent trees. It was perfect.

We dumped our bags and stepped straight out again, determined not to waste the last of the light. Instead of following the coastal path we knew from the map, we took a narrow footpath that seemed to head inland. It quickly narrowed into a tunnel of gorse and bracken, the sort of track you only notice when you’re not looking for anything in particular. After ten minutes of mild bickering about whether we were lost, the path opened onto a small, forgotten cove we’d never have found on purpose. The tide was out, leaving a stretch of wet sand scattered with driftwood and the occasional glinting shell. We stood there for a while, shoes off, listening to nothing but the lazy slap of water against rock.

The next morning we tried again to be sensible and stick to the plan. We meant to drive the short distance into Porthcawl for coffee, but a road closure forced us onto a lane that wound past allotments and a row of pastel-painted terraces. Halfway along we spotted a hand-painted sign pointing to “Teas and Cakes” in what looked like someone’s front garden. Curiosity won. We parked beside a wheelbarrow full of marigolds and found ourselves at a table under a striped awning, sharing a slice of bara brith still warm from the oven. The woman who served us told us she only opened when the fancy took her, which explained why the place wasn’t on any map we’d seen.

That accidental detour became the pattern for the whole stay. On our final afternoon we set off with the vague intention of finding a bench with a view, but ended up following a stream that trickled behind the cottage. The water led us through a small wood where bluebells still clung to the shade, then out onto a disused railway cutting now thick with wild garlic. We walked until our legs ached and the light began to fade, then turned back only because the midges had started to notice us. Back at Superior 2, the decking was warm from the day’s sun, and we sat with mugs of tea watching the sky turn the colour of weak Ribena.

It’s funny how easily plans dissolve when you give them half a chance. I’d arrived thinking a three-day break meant ticking off a list of sights, yet the best bits happened when the list got crumpled and tossed aside. Getting briefly lost on that first afternoon had set the tone: a reminder that sometimes the nicest places are the ones you stumble across when you’re not trying too hard.