We’d barely left the M4 when the sat-nav decided to send us down a lane so narrow I had to fold the wing mirrors in, and then the boot lid popped open on a speed bump outside Saundersfoot. Nothing fell out, but we spent five minutes chasing a rogue carrier bag down the verge while a queue of holiday traffic tutted behind us. By the time we turned into the gravel drive of the four-bed lodge just outside Tenby, the bag was safely wedged under the spare wheel and we were ready for something more civilised than service-station sandwiches.

The lodge itself sat in a quiet patch of garden with enough space for two cars and a picnic table that caught the late-afternoon sun. Inside, the kitchen was bigger than ours at home, with a proper oven and a fridge that could hold enough food for a week. We dumped the bags, made a quick cuppa, and set straight back out again; Tenby’s Friday market was still in full swing down on Upper Park Road, and we needed supplies before everything shut.

The stalls were a cheerful jumble of local produce. We picked up a couple of fat Welsh cakes still warm from the griddle, a wedge of Caerphilly, and some thick-cut bacon from a farmer who assured us it came from pigs that had never seen the inside of a lorry. A quick detour to the Co-op for milk and a crusty loaf, and we were back at the lodge with our arms full. That first evening we cooked nothing fancy: bacon butties on thick bread, eaten at the picnic table while the light faded over the rooftops. The bacon spat and popped like it was telling its own story, and we ate in comfortable silence until the midges arrived.

The next morning we wandered down into town for a proper breakfast. The Lighthouse Café on the harbour does a plate of eggs, mushrooms and the sort of black pudding that actually tastes of something. We sat outside, watching the boats bob and the seagulls argue over dropped chips. By eleven we were already hungry again, so we stopped at The Buccaneer for coffee and a shared slice of bara brith that was sweet and spicy enough to count as pudding.

Lunch was a more ambitious attempt back at the lodge. We’d bought a couple of fresh mackerel from the fishmonger on Lower Park Road, and I decided we’d grill them with lemon and herbs. The grill pan was enthusiastic, the fish less so; one fillet stuck, the skin tore, and what landed on the plate looked more like modern art than lunch. We ate it anyway, laughing at the charred bits and mopping up the lemony juices with the leftover loaf. It wasn’t pretty, but it tasted of the sea and of not quite knowing what we were doing.

That afternoon we wandered back into town purely for research purposes, or so we told ourselves. The Pelican on Main Street had a blackboard promising Welsh lamb cawl, and after one spoonful we stopped talking for a good five minutes. Thick, savoury, the sort of broth that makes you feel looked after. We followed it with a slice of bara brith again, because why not, and then ambled slowly back to the lodge with the pleasant weight of a proper meal settling in.

By Sunday morning we’d settled into a rhythm: market for bread and cheese, a quick coffee at the harbour, then back to cook whatever we’d bought the day before. This time it was sausages from the butcher and a mountain of onions that caramelised into something sweet and sticky. We ate them in buns at the kitchen table while rain tapped the windows, the sort of gentle, persistent Welsh rain that makes staying indoors feel like a treat rather than a disappointment. Between mouthfuls we admitted we’d probably over-catered, but neither of us minded the prospect of another bacon butty before the drive home.

Looking back, the lodge kitchen became the real heart of the weekend. It wasn’t the scenery or the walks that stayed with me most; it was the small, slightly chaotic business of turning market finds into meals we’d eaten together, even when the grill pan fought back. The mishap on the way down already felt like part of the story, the sort of tiny hiccup that makes the first proper sit-down meal taste even better.