We set off from Narberth on a Friday morning, only to realise halfway down the A477 that I’d left the cottage keys on the kitchen table. By the time we doubled back, collected them and finally wound down the single-track lane to Hafan Lodge 85, the sun was already dipping behind the trees. The lodge itself looked exactly as the photos had promised: a neat timber cabin tucked into a small clearing, with a wooden deck overlooking a gentle slope of gorse and distant sea glimpses.

As we unloaded the car, a man in a flat cap appeared from the neighbouring lodge, pushing a wheelbarrow of logs. “You’ll be needing a hand with that?” he asked, already lifting the heavier bag without waiting for an answer. His name, he told us, was Gwyn, and he’d been coming here every spring for fifteen years. “Used to bring the wife, but she says the hills are too steep now. I come for the quiet and the pasties from the little bakery on Upper Park Road.” He pointed vaguely toward town and chuckled. “They still do the cheese-and-onion ones on Fridays—don’t miss them.”

While we unpacked, a woman in a bright red anorak wandered over from the car park with a spaniel tugging at the lead. “You’ve picked a grand weekend,” she said. “I’m Bethan from the tourist office—well, retired now, but I can’t stay away.” She asked where we were from, then launched into a story about the time a London couple tried to book a boat trip in January and ended up on a fishing trawler by mistake. “They came back green,” she laughed, “but they still send me a Christmas card.” Bethan insisted we try the fish and chips from the stall near the harbour steps, “none of that fancy stuff, just proper haddock.”

Later, after we’d claimed the deck chairs, an older chap in paint-splattered overalls strolled past with a tin of emulsion. He introduced himself as Dai and explained he was touching up the fence posts for the site owner. “Used to be a fisherman,” he said, leaning on his brush. “Now I just paint and gossip. You’ll meet Moira at the honesty box by the gate—she runs it on Thursdays. Last week she left a note saying the eggs were from her hens and the change was in the biscuit tin. Proper trust exercise, that.”

By evening we’d wandered down the lane toward the harbour, where the tide was out and the boats rested on wet sand. A young lad selling ice creams from a hatch asked if we’d seen the dolphins yet. “They come in with the mackerel shoals,” he told us, wiping his hands on a tea towel. “My gran swears one followed her kayak last summer.” We bought two cones and sat on a bench while he chatted about the best spots for rock-pooling with kids—somewhere near the lifeboat station, apparently.

Back at the lodge, Gwyn reappeared with a spare chopping board. “Thought you might need it for those pasties,” he said with a wink. We ended up sharing a bottle of wine on the deck while he told us about the time the local brass band practised in the field behind the lodges. “Sounded like a flock of geese with instruments. The sheep didn’t know whether to run or join in.”

As the light faded, I found myself thinking how strange it was that three casual conversations had already made the place feel less like a holiday rental and more like a borrowed living room. The mishap with the keys already seemed like part of the story rather than a nuisance, and I wondered whether the real charm of Tenby wasn’t the scenery at all, but the way strangers here slipped so easily into your afternoon.