The drive down to Tenby had been straightforward enough until I took a wrong turn just outside the town and ended up doing a full lap of a roundabout while the satnav kept insisting I’d arrived. By the time I pulled up outside Swn Y Mor Lodge, the sky had already decided to test me with a fine, persistent drizzle that soaked straight through my jacket. The lodge itself sat quietly on the edge of the caravan park, its wooden deck still glistening from the morning rain, and I felt that small, familiar relief of finally reaching somewhere that looked like it might actually be home for the next few nights.

I fumbled the key code on the first try, of course, then stepped inside to the smell of clean linen and a faint trace of woodsmoke from the stove. The living room was bright even under grey skies, with big windows that framed the path leading straight out toward the coastal walks. I dropped my bag, made a cup of tea that went cold before I’d finished it, and spent the first hour just watching the weather roll in over the sea. It felt like the sort of place where plans are meant to be flexible.

By late afternoon the rain had eased enough for a proper walk, so I headed out along the coastal path toward Castle Beach. The tide was out, leaving wide stretches of damp sand that reflected the low clouds like a mirror, and I found myself grinning at how quickly my boots had turned the same shade of grey as the sky. A family ahead of me had the same idea, their dog bounding through the shallows while the children collected shells that probably wouldn’t survive the car journey home. I walked as far as the harbour wall, watching the little boats bob and wondering whether the forecast had been lying or just politely vague.

The next morning brought that classic British twist: bright sun one minute, a sharp shower the next. I set off toward the cliffs above North Beach, thinking I’d do the short loop to Giltar Point, but within twenty minutes the wind had picked up and the path was turning slippery underfoot. I ducked into a sheltered spot behind a low wall, ate a slightly squashed sandwich, and listened to the gulls arguing overhead. It wasn’t the dramatic hike I’d pictured, but there was something oddly satisfying about letting the weather decide the pace instead of pushing on just to tick off miles.

By the third day I’d learned to keep a waterproof in my daypack at all times and to treat any patch of blue sky as a temporary invitation rather than a promise. I wandered the quieter paths behind the lodge, following a narrow track through gorse and bracken that opened onto sudden views of the bay whenever the clouds lifted. A sudden downpour sent me hurrying back under the trees, where I stood dripping and laughing at my own optimism. Later, when the sun finally broke through properly, I sat on the deck with a book I never opened, just watching the light change on the water and feeling quietly grateful that none of my carefully planned routes had gone to plan.

There’s a particular calm that comes from surrendering to Welsh weather on a short break. You start the day with intentions and end it with whatever the clouds allow, and somehow that feels like the real point of being here.