We set off from Cardiff in good time, only for the sat-nav to decide the A477 was far too straightforward and send us on a scenic detour via a lane that was basically a hedge with ideas above its station. The children thought it was hilarious; I, trying to reverse past a tractor without clipping the wing mirror, was less amused. By the time we finally rolled into the little car park outside the 3 Bed Lodge in Stepaside, it was late afternoon and the first drops of rain were spotting the windscreen. The moment we stepped inside, though, all the faff melted away. The lodge felt immediately homely, with a big, squashy sofa facing the wood-burner and a kitchen table already set with mismatched mugs that somehow made the place feel lived-in rather than show-home tidy.

The kids claimed the twin room before I’d even hauled the bags from the boot, and my partner disappeared to check the hot-tub lid was secure against the breeze. I stood for a moment in the open-plan living space, listening to the rain patter on the wooden decking outside, and felt the familiar tug of relief that always comes when you realise you don’t have to do anything for three whole days. We’d packed light on purpose—no packed itinerary, just a stack of board games and a vague plan to wander into Tenby when the mood struck. The fridge had already been stocked by the owners with local milk and a loaf from the bakery in Saundersfoot, so supper was simply toast and beans eaten at the kitchen counter while the children argued over who got the top bunk.

Next morning the sun made a half-hearted appearance, so we wandered the short path down to the little stream that runs behind the lodges. The children spent an hour trying to dam it with pebbles, and I sat on a log with a mug of tea that kept going cold because I kept forgetting to drink it. Later we drove the five minutes into Tenby itself, parked near the harbour, and mooched along the front eating chips from paper cones. The sea was that particular shade of slate-grey that only the Welsh coast seems to manage, and the wind kept flicking salt into our faces. Back at the lodge, the afternoon dissolved into the gentle chaos of damp coats draped over every chair and a game of Uno that somehow lasted until the light faded.

By the second evening we’d fallen into an easy rhythm: hot-tub after tea, then everyone crammed onto the sofa for a film while the rain returned and drummed on the roof. I caught myself watching the children’s faces in the flicker of the screen and realised how rarely we all sit still together without someone glancing at a phone. There’s something quietly restorative about a place that forces you to slow down, even if the forcing comes in the shape of patchy Wi-Fi and a slightly temperamental kettle. On our last morning we lingered over breakfast, the table strewn with crumbs and empty cereal bowls, reluctant to pack up just yet. As we finally pulled away, the sat-nav tried to send us on another detour, but this time I ignored it and took the straightforward route home, already wondering how soon we could come back for another three days of doing almost nothing at all.