We set off from Carmarthen in bright sunshine, windows down, the A477 humming beneath us, until a rogue carrier bag decided to fly out of the boot at the roundabout near Kilgetty and flutter dramatically into the hedge. Five minutes of chasing it across damp grass left me slightly red-faced and very glad we’d already packed the wine. By the time we rolled into Tenby’s narrow streets the bag was long forgotten and the sight of pastel houses stacked against the harbour lifted my spirits at once.

Osprey 6 sits just a short stroll from the South Beach, tucked behind a quiet lane of similar cottages. The moment we stepped through the low front door the smell of fresh linen and faint woodsmoke greeted us, and the open-plan living room felt instantly homely. A squashy sofa faced wide windows that framed the garden, and beyond that a glimpse of the sea between rooftops. I dropped the bags, kicked off my shoes and simply stood there for a minute, letting the calm settle.

The next three days followed no particular order. Mornings began with coffee on the patio, birdsong from the shrubs and the occasional gull wheeling overhead. We lingered over toast and local jam, sometimes reading aloud snippets from the paper, sometimes saying nothing at all. The garden itself became our main entertainment: a small square of lawn bordered by lavender and rosemary, a wooden bench catching the afternoon sun, and a bird feeder that kept us quietly amused whenever a bold chaffinch landed. I found myself watching the shadows lengthen across the grass, surprised by how satisfying it felt to do so little.

When we did stir, it was only as far as the harbour. We ambled down the hill, bought pasties from the stall by the lifeboat station, then carried them back to eat on the garden bench. Later we wandered along the South Beach, shoes in hand, letting the shallow waves chase our toes. The tide was out, the sand firm and warm, and we spent a contented half-hour collecting tiny shells neither of us really needed. Back at the cottage I stretched out on the sofa with a novel I’d been meaning to finish for months; the only sounds were the occasional creak of floorboards and the soft ticking of the kitchen clock.

Evenings were simple. We lit the wood-burner more for atmosphere than warmth, cooked a slow pasta on the little hob and opened the bottle we’d rescued from the roadside. After supper we sat with the doors ajar, listening to distant laughter from the pub down the lane. I caught myself wondering why we so rarely allow ordinary days to stretch like this—why we usually cram them with plans when the real pleasure seems to be in letting time drift. The thought passed as quickly as it came, replaced by the quiet satisfaction of another evening with nowhere else to be.

By the final morning the garden felt almost familiar. I sat on the bench with my last cup of tea, watching a wren hop along the fence, and realised the insignificant mishap with the carrier bag had been the only thing that had gone “wrong.” Everything else had unfolded exactly as hoped: unhurried, unremarkable and quietly perfect. As we packed the car I found myself already planning the next trip back, not for any grand adventure, but simply to spend another few days doing very little in the same small, welcoming space.