We rolled into Tenby just after lunch, the sat-nav cheerfully announcing we’d arrived while the lane narrowed into a single track lined with high hedges. I was still congratulating myself on beating the traffic when the front wheel dipped into an unseen pothole and the passenger-side wing mirror smacked against a wooden post with an alarming crack. The mirror survived—barely—but the plastic cover now sported a jaunty new angle that made us look permanently surprised.

No 13 Broadfield Farm sits just outside the town proper, a tidy row of pale stone cottages tucked behind a low drystone wall. We parked on the gravel apron, unloaded the bags, and fumbled with the key safe for longer than I’d like to admit. Once inside, the first thing that struck me was the smell: clean linen, faint woodsmoke, and the unmistakable salt of the nearby coast. The living room felt instantly welcoming—soft sofas, a wood-burner already laid, and a big window framing a slice of green field sloping toward the sea.

The kitchen was small but perfectly judged: enough cupboards for a week’s worth of shopping, a decent hob, and a kettle that boiled in seconds. We made tea while the kids explored the garden, a neat square of lawn bordered by lavender and a picnic bench already set out. From there you can hear the gulls and, if the wind is right, the faint rumble of the tide on North Beach a short stroll away.

I’d half-expected the place to feel cramped after the long drive, but the high ceilings and pale colours kept everything airy. The bedrooms were simple and spotless, each with thick curtains that promised proper darkness when the sun finally set around ten. Even the bathroom managed to feel generous—tall shower, plenty of hot water, and a heated towel rail that clicked companionably.

After unpacking we wandered the short lane into Tenby itself. The town was busy in that easy, end-of-summer way: families queuing for ice cream, dogs trotting along the harbour railings, the lifeboat station gleaming white against the blue. We bought pasties from the little bakery on the corner and ate them on the harbour wall, watching the tide inch higher around the moored boats. The mishap with the mirror already felt like part of the story rather than a disaster; every time we caught its crooked reflection we laughed.

Back at the cottage the evening light turned the fields gold. We lit the wood-burner more for the glow than the heat and sat with the doors open, listening to the distant surf. It struck me, watching the kids chase each other across the lawn, how quickly a slightly chaotic start can settle into something quietly perfect. We’d only been here a few hours, yet the place already felt less like a holiday let and more like a borrowed home.