We set off from the ferry port on a grey Tuesday morning, the satnav cheerfully promising an hour and a half to Caban Y Mor, yet somehow we arrived with the boot half-open and my favourite jumper flapping from the roof rack like a sad flag. Tenby looked exactly as I’d hoped—whitewashed terraces stacked above a curl of sand, seagulls wheeling in the salt air—while the cottage itself sat just back from the North Beach, its red door catching the afternoon sun. We tumbled inside to the smell of woodsmoke and fresh bread left by the owner, dumped our bags, and promptly ignored every sensible plan we’d made.

Instead of heading straight to the harbour for fish and chips, we wandered uphill behind the cottage, following a narrow lane that the map didn’t even bother to name. The tarmac soon petered out into a gravel track bordered by brambles heavy with late blackberries. We picked a few, fingers turning purple, and kept walking until the path dipped into a sheltered hollow where a handful of weather-beaten beach huts faced a tiny cove no wider than a bus stop. A local dog-walker told us it was called “Pigeon’s Hole,” though it wasn’t on any of the tourist boards. We sat on the low wall, sharing a bar of chocolate that had melted in my pocket, and watched the tide creep in around a single half-submerged rowing boat.

That accidental discovery set the tone for the next two days. Each morning we’d set out with no real destination, letting curiosity steer us down footpaths that locals use to shortcut between beaches. One led us to a lichen-covered stile behind the caravan park; beyond it, a meadow rolled down to a wedge of golden sand that felt miles from anywhere, though we could still hear the faint thump of the lifeboat station’s generator. Another trail took us through an old railway cutting now thick with foxgloves, ending at a bench overlooking the whole sweep of South Beach without another soul in sight.

The cottage itself became our quiet anchor. Its kitchen window framed the changing light on the water, and we spent quiet evenings cooking simple meals while rain tapped the skylight. I found myself lingering over the small things—the way the kettle whistled in the same key every morning, the stack of well-thumbed paperbacks left by previous guests, the single coat hook that always seemed to catch my jacket just right. It struck me, somewhere between the second cup of tea and the third, how rare it is to feel so immediately at home somewhere you’ve never been before.

By the third afternoon we were properly lost again, this time in the maze of alleyways behind Upper Frog Street. We emerged onto a hidden terrace where an elderly man was selling jars of homemade damson jam from his front garden. He pointed us toward a footpath that cut through allotments and brought us out above Castle Beach just as the light turned honey-gold. We stayed until the last ferry to Caldey Island had chugged away, then wandered back to Caban Y Mor with jam-sticky fingers and the soft ache of tired legs.

Three short days, and already the cottage felt like an old friend. I left wondering how many more of Tenby’s tucked-away corners we’d missed, and quietly promising myself another unplanned wander next time.