I’d barely turned the key in the ignition when the satnav announced we’d arrived, only to find ourselves wedged halfway down a narrow lane with a bin lorry reversing straight at us. My partner leapt out waving like a semaphore signaller while I tried not to stall, and somewhere behind the hedge a seagull screamed as if it were commentating. By the time we’d squeezed past and parked outside Cornerstones Brython, my carefully packed bag of snacks had spilled across the back seat and a rogue banana was wedged under the handbrake.

We tumbled out into the soft drizzle that seems to follow every Welsh weekend, laughing at our own disarray. The cottage stood neat and white, its blue door bright against the grey stone walls, and the moment I stepped inside the smell of fresh linen and a faint trace of woodsmoke wrapped around us like a welcome. Sunlight slanted through the small-paned windows and landed on a scrubbed kitchen table already set with two mismatched mugs and a handwritten note wishing us “a peaceful stay.” Peace felt possible, even with the banana situation.

We left the unpacking for later and wandered straight out again, drawn by the sound of the tide turning on Castle Beach. The sand was still damp from the morning’s rain, and the pastel terraces of Tenby rose behind us in neat rows of cream, pink and sky-blue. A couple of teenagers were trying to skim stones while their dog charged into the shallows, and I realised I’d forgotten how quickly the sea air clears a head full of motorway miles. We bought two takeaway coffees from the kiosk by the lifeboat station and carried them up to the harbour wall, where fishing boats bobbed and gulls wheeled overhead looking for chips.

Back at the cottage the kettle whistled cheerfully, and we sat in the little living room watching the light change on the rooftops. There was a shelf of local books and board games, and one battered jigsaw of Tenby Harbour half-finished by previous guests. I found myself wondering why it takes a small domestic chaos to make me notice these tiny comforts: the soft throw on the sofa, the way the kettle switches itself off with a friendly click, the fact that someone had thought to leave fresh milk in the fridge. It felt like being handed a reset button disguised as a weekend.

Later we strolled along the coastal path that skirts the edge of town, stopping every few steps to peer over the railings at rock pools glinting in the late sun. Children squealed as they poked at anemones, and an elderly couple offered us a handful of blackberries they’d picked from the brambles along the way. We ate them straight from our palms, the juice staining our fingers, and I caught myself thinking how rarely I slow down enough to taste something so ordinary and sweet. The path curved back toward the cottage just as the first stars pricked through the sky, and the windows of Cornerstones Brython glowed warm against the dusk.

By the time we returned, the earlier drizzle had given way to a clear, cool evening. We opened the back door onto the tiny patio and listened to the distant hush of the waves. Somewhere a church bell marked the hour, and the sound drifted across the rooftops like a gentle reminder that we were, for three short days, exactly where we needed to be.