The journey down to Tenby was going swimmingly until I took a wrong turn just outside Kilgetty and ended up reversing into a hedge. Nothing dramatic, just a mild scrape and a red face as I extracted the car while a sheep looked on with mild disappointment. By the time we pulled up at 2 Bed Lodge in Stepaside, the sun was already low over the fields and the kettle was calling my name.

We had barely unpacked the car when a neighbour wandered over with a spaniel in tow. “You the new lot then?” he asked, as if we’d just moved in permanently. His name was Dai, and within five minutes he’d told us the entire history of the lodge, including the summer it had been rented by a brass band that practised at three in the morning. “They were good, mind,” he added, “just not neighbourly.” We laughed, and he wandered off whistling something that might have been a march.

That first evening we strolled the short lane into Stepaside village, which felt more like a handful of houses that had decided to stay together for company. Outside the little shop a woman was sweeping the step with unnecessary vigour. “You’ll be wanting milk for the morning,” she said, without looking up. When I admitted we hadn’t thought that far ahead, she disappeared inside and returned with a pint, waving away any offer of payment. “Pay me when you leave, if you remember. Most people don’t.” I promised I would, and she gave me a look that suggested she’d heard that before.

Back at the lodge we sat on the little deck with a glass of wine, watching the light fade over the trees. A couple walking their terrier paused at the gate. The woman introduced herself as Megan and her husband as Gareth, though Gareth was mostly occupied trying to stop the dog from digging under the fence. Megan asked if we’d come for the coastal path. When I said we were just planning to potter about locally, she nodded approvingly. “Best way. People race off to the cliffs and miss the bit where the real stories happen.” She then launched into a tale about the time the village fete had been invaded by a flock of escaped ducks, and how the vicar had tried to herd them with a broom while still wearing his robes. Gareth chuckled quietly, clearly having heard it many times.

The next morning the same shop woman appeared again, this time carrying a paper bag of Welsh cakes. “Left over from yesterday,” she said, though they looked freshly made. She stayed for a chat about the weather, the price of petrol, and whether the new bypass would ever actually happen. I found myself nodding along as if I’d lived there for years.

By the second afternoon we had become minor celebrities in the lane. Another neighbour, an older chap called Idris, stopped to ask whether our boiler was behaving itself. Apparently it had a reputation. When I said it was fine he looked almost disappointed, then brightened up and offered to lend us his barbecue if we fancied it. “Just bring it back cleaner than you found it,” he warned, before ambling off with his hands in his pockets.

On our last morning we packed slowly, reluctant to leave the easy rhythm we’d fallen into. Dai reappeared with a small bunch of rosemary from his garden. “For the journey,” he said. “And mind that hedge on the way out.” I laughed, promised to watch where I was going this time, and realised I already felt oddly at home among these people who had treated us like temporary locals rather than tourists. As we drove away, the lodge shrinking in the mirror, I found myself hoping the next guests would also get the milk on trust and hear about the brass band at three a.m.