I’d barely finished wrestling the boot shut on the hire car when the heavens opened, and in my rush to grab the last bag I managed to leave the keys sitting on the passenger seat. A quick dash back through the drizzle sorted it, but it set the tone for a slightly soggy arrival at Ty Olwyn Bach. The little whitewashed cottage sits just outside Brecon, tucked behind a low stone wall with a view straight across the valley, and once I’d dried off I couldn’t stop smiling at how perfectly it matched the pictures.

Inside, the kitchen felt like the heart of the place: a scrubbed pine table, a sturdy range, and shelves already stocked with local honey and a jar of Welsh cakes left by the owners. I dumped my damp coat on a chair and headed straight back out to see what supper supplies were on offer.

Brecon’s Wednesday market was still in full swing despite the weather, so I wandered the stalls with a takeaway coffee, picking up a wedge of mature Caerphilly, a packet of laverbread, and the plumpest leeks I’ve seen in ages. Back at the cottage I decided the range needed testing, so I set about making cawl. Chopping vegetables while rain tapped the window felt oddly soothing, until I realised I’d forgotten to soak the lamb overnight; the stew still came together nicely, though, and by the time it had bubbled for an hour the kitchen smelled like proper Sunday lunch.

That evening I strolled down to The Bull in nearby Cradoc for a pint of local ale and a plate of lamb faggots with mash. The pub was busy with walkers shaking off the day, and the landlord’s easy chat made me feel like a regular already. I left with a warm glow that had nothing to do with the fire in the grate.

The next morning started with a fry-up attempt that nearly went sideways when the black pudding decided to stick; a quick scrape and a generous dollop of brown sauce rescued it. I ate it at the kitchen table with the door propped open, listening to the river below and wondering why I don’t cook like this more often back home.

Lunch was a simple ploughman’s using the market cheese and a crusty loaf from the village bakery, followed by a lazy afternoon flipping through the cottage guest book. Reading other visitors’ notes about their own market hauls and failed pastry attempts made me laugh; apparently I wasn’t the first to battle the range knobs.

By teatime the sun had broken through, so I wandered into Brecon again for fish and chips from the takeaway on the high street, eating them straight from the paper on a bench overlooking the river. The batter was shatteringly crisp, the chips steaming in the cool air, and for a moment I forgot about deadlines and to-do lists.

On the final evening I tried something a bit fancier: Welsh rarebit made with the leftover Caerphilly and a splash of local ale. It bubbled up golden under the grill, and I carried the plate outside to watch the valley turn gold in the late light. Sitting there, fork in hand, it struck me how easily three days can shift your pace; the small disasters with keys and burnt black pudding suddenly felt like part of the charm rather than setbacks.

As the light faded I packed the leftover leeks for the drive home, already planning which market stall I’d visit first next time. Ty Olwyn Bach hadn’t just given me a roof; it had reminded me that good food, a warm kitchen, and a bit of rain are sometimes all you need to feel properly looked after.