We’d barely left the M4 when the satnav decided to test our patience, rerouting us down a single-track lane just outside Cowbridge. A tractor appeared, we reversed into a hedge, and the driver hopped down with a grin, calling, “You’ll want the right-hand fork, love – the other one ends in a slurry pit.” Five minutes later we were pulling up to Y Nyth, a neat stone cottage tucked behind a low wall on the edge of Llanblethian. The key was under a terracotta pot exactly as promised, and inside smelled faintly of woodsmoke and fresh bread.

We’d only just dumped our bags when there was a polite knock. Mrs Probert from next door stood on the step holding a small plate of Welsh cakes, still warm. “Thought you might need something proper after the drive,” she said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. Within minutes she’d pointed out which cupboard hid the spare tea towels and warned us the garden gate sticks when it’s been raining. Her husband, Gareth, appeared a little later with a wheelbarrow of kindling. “You’ll be needing this if the forecast’s right,” he told us, and stayed for a cuppa, explaining that the field behind the cottage had once been a cricket pitch until the cows took over.

That first afternoon we wandered into Cowbridge for milk and ended up chatting with the woman behind the post-office counter. She asked where we were staying, then nodded knowingly. “Y Nyth, is it? You’ll have met the Proberts already, then.” She leaned over the counter and lowered her voice. “Don’t let Gareth talk you into joining the Tuesday quiz at the Bear – he cheats with his phone under the table.” We were still laughing when a man in a flat cap joined the queue behind us and asked if we’d seen the heron by the river yet. Apparently it had taken up residence near the footbridge and was “showing off for the tourists.”

Back at the cottage we lit the fire and were just settling with mugs of tea when another knock came – this time from the other side. A teenage lad called Tom, who’d been sent by his mum with a jar of homemade chutney, lingered on the doorstep telling us he’d helped restore the dry-stone wall at the bottom of the garden last summer. He pointed out the loose stone that always wobbles and promised to come back with his dog if we fancied a walk along the lane. By the time he left, the light was fading and the room felt warmer for all the voices that had already passed through it.

Evening brought the soft thud of a football against the garden wall. Two boys from the village were using it as an impromptu goal while their dad leaned on the gate, calling instructions. We stepped out to watch and ended up hearing the entire story of how the local football team once reached the cup final only to lose because their goalkeeper’s wellies got stuck in the mud. The dad, whose name turned out to be Iwan, invited us to the pub later “if you fancy hearing the proper version with the beer in it.”

Over the next couple of days the pattern repeated itself. Every time we stepped outside we seemed to collect another snippet of local lore or gentle teasing. Mrs Probert popped round each morning to check we’d remembered the milkman’s knock, and Gareth kept us updated on the weather with the solemnity of a shipping forecast. In the post office the counter lady had taken to asking what we’d had for breakfast, and Tom’s dog had decided our doorstep was the best place for a midday nap.

By the third morning, as we packed the car, I realised the cottage itself had become almost secondary. The real stay had been the slow accumulation of these small conversations – the tractor driver’s directions, the Welsh cakes on the step, the quiz-night warnings. Standing by the gate with Mrs Probert waving us off, I caught myself wondering whether the next guests would receive the same welcome, or whether we’d somehow taken a little piece of it with us down that same narrow lane.