We’d barely made it through the outskirts of Tenby before the sat-nav decided to lead us up a single-track lane that ended in someone’s driveway, complete with a bemused sheep staring at us from behind a garden gate. After a quick three-point turn and a bit of sheep-related embarrassment, we finally pulled up outside Cariad Y Mor Lodge, a tidy little stone cottage tucked just behind the harbour wall. The front door opened straight onto a quiet back lane, and the moment we stepped inside the smell of fresh bread and sea air made the whole place feel like someone had already put the kettle on for us.

Our first afternoon was meant to be a gentle wander along the main beach, but a wrong turning at the top of the hill sent us down a narrow path we hadn’t noticed on the map. It wound between high hedges heavy with blackberries, then opened suddenly onto a tiny cove we’d never heard of. The tide was out, leaving a perfect stretch of damp sand for collecting shells, and the only other footprints belonged to a dog that had clearly beaten us to it. We stayed until the light started to fade, then followed the path back up, pausing every few steps to look out over the rooftops to the sea.

The next morning we set off again without a plan, and that proved to be the best decision. A signpost pointing vaguely toward the cliffs turned out to lead to an old smugglers’ track that hugged the headland. Halfway along we found a bench someone had placed right at the edge, perfectly positioned for watching gulls ride the wind. We sat there for ages, sharing a packet of biscuits and watching the waves roll in far below, until a sudden shower chased us back toward the cottage. By the time we reached the lane the rain had stopped, leaving everything smelling of wet stone and seaweed.

On our final day we accidentally discovered a tiny art gallery hidden down a side street near the old lifeboat station. It was really just a converted garage with a handwritten sign, but inside were local paintings of the harbour in every season, and the owner made us tea while we browsed. We left with a small print of the beach at sunrise and a promise to come back when the gallery was open again. That evening we cooked in the lodge’s little kitchen, the windows steamed up from boiling potatoes while the last of the sun lit the rooftops outside.

There’s something oddly satisfying about getting lost in a place this size. You start out looking for a café and end up finding a bench with the best view in town, or you take a wrong turn and stumble across a cove that feels like it’s been waiting just for you. By the time we packed the car on Sunday, the mishap on the lane felt less like a mistake and more like the first step in a weekend of happy accidents.