We set off from Cardiff in high spirits, but the sat-nav had other ideas and guided us straight into a roadwork detour that added an hour to the journey. By the time we reached Tenby the clouds had turned that familiar Welsh slate-grey and the first spots of rain were tapping the windscreen. Still, the sight of Osprey 7 sitting just above the harbour lifted our mood; its whitewashed walls and little slate roof looked cosy even under the drizzle.

We parked the car in the narrow lane behind the cottage and fumbled with the key safe for a good five minutes before realising we’d been punching in the wrong code. Once inside, the warmth from the wood-burner hit us straight away, along with the faint scent of sea salt that seemed to cling to the curtains. The living room window framed a perfect slice of Castle Beach, already half-covered by an incoming tide. We dumped our bags, made tea, and watched the raindrops chase each other down the glass while deciding what to do with the rest of the afternoon.

The forecast promised a brief window of brightness, so we pulled on waterproof jackets and headed out for what we grandly called “a short leg-stretch.” Tenby’s streets were slick underfoot, but the pastel houses still glowed against the grey sea. We wandered down to the harbour, where fishing boats bobbed and seagulls argued over chips, then followed the coastal path that hugs the cliffs towards Giltar Point. The path felt solid at first, but after twenty minutes the heavens opened properly and the wind whipped sideways, turning our hoods into useless sails. Laughing at our own optimism, we turned back, shoes squelching, and ducked into a tiny café on Upper Frog Street for hot chocolate and Welsh cakes still warm from the griddle.

The next morning began with watery sunshine that made the whole town look freshly painted. We set off again, this time aiming for the South Beach walk, only to watch the sky darken within half an hour. Sheets of rain chased us along the sand until we reached the shelter of the dunes, where we stood huddled like penguins, sharing a packet of crisps and watching the waves turn white. The weather had a knack for making every decision for us, and we found ourselves oddly grateful; without the downpours we might never have noticed how the light changes when clouds race across the bay, or how the air smells different after each shower.

By the final day we’d learned not to fight the forecast. We packed a flask and headed out anyway, following the coastal path northwards towards Waterwynch. The rain held off just long enough for us to reach the little wooden footbridge over the stream, then returned with a vengeance. We stood under a dripping hawthorn, sipping tea and listening to the drops drum on our hoods, and I caught myself thinking how rare it is these days to let the weather dictate the pace. There’s something quietly freeing about surrendering plans to the sky, even if it means spending more time inside watching the harbour lights come on than striding across clifftops.

In the end, the three days at Osprey 7 became less about ticking off walks and more about the small adjustments we made when the weather changed its mind. We returned home with damp boots, a few extra photos of moody seascapes, and the pleasant feeling that we’d been properly introduced to Tenby rather than simply visiting it.