We’d barely made it through the front door of Ramsey Lodge when I realised I’d left the car keys in the ignition, engine still purring away like it hadn’t noticed we’d arrived. A quick dash back down the short gravel track fixed that, but the moment set the tone for our first day in Tenby: everything felt a touch off-kilter in the nicest possible way. The lodge itself sat tucked behind a screen of whispering pines, its wooden deck catching the last of the afternoon sun, and once I’d stopped laughing at my own absent-mindedness, the quiet wrapped around us like an old jumper.

We’d chosen the place because it looked the sort where you could come and go without anyone checking your every move, and that proved true the moment we stepped inside. A kettle waited on the counter, and the sitting room opened straight onto a little deck with two mismatched chairs that seemed to invite you to sit and do nothing in particular. We made tea, then decided on a wander before unpacking properly. The lane outside curled away between high hedges, and rather than heading straight for the obvious coastal path, we simply followed our noses. Within minutes the road narrowed into a single track bordered by brambles heavy with late blackberries, and we found ourselves in a pocket of meadow that didn’t appear on any map we’d glanced at.

A low stone stile led into a small churchyard where the grass grew long and the gravestones leaned like old friends. We spent a happy half-hour reading names and dates, the sea breeze carrying the faint cry of gulls from somewhere beyond the trees. From there a half-hidden footpath continued between dry-stone walls, eventually spitting us out onto a sliver of sand tucked beneath low cliffs. It wasn’t the wide stretch of South Beach we’d half-expected; this was quieter, the tide leaving perfect ripples in the wet sand and a single driftwood log serving as an impromptu bench. We sat with our shoes off, watching a cormorant dive for fish while the sun slipped lower.

The next morning we tried again to be sensible and follow the proper coastal route, but the lane we meant to take turned out to be blocked by a fallen branch. Instead we cut through a farm gate that looked as though it hadn’t been shut properly in years, and found ourselves on a winding track that led to a tiny cove locals clearly used for launching small boats. A rusting winch and a couple of upturned dinghies were the only signs of company. We collected a few shells, skipped stones, and felt gloriously invisible.

By the time we wandered back toward the lodge, the light had turned golden and the smell of woodsmoke drifted from somewhere nearby. We stopped at a honesty-box stall selling fresh eggs and a jar of local honey, leaving coins in a tin that had clearly seen better days. Back at Ramsey Lodge we grilled sausages on the little barbecue and ate them on the deck, listening to the pines creak in the evening breeze. It struck me, watching the last light fade over the treetops, how easy it is to plan every hour of a holiday and still miss the best bits entirely. Sometimes the real discovery is simply letting the path choose you, keys left in the ignition and all.