We set off from Carmarthen just after lunch, the sun doing its best through patchy cloud, and somehow still managed to take the long way round the one-way system in Tenby. By the time we found the right turning for The Boathouse, I’d already managed to drop the car keys down the side of the seat, which meant ten minutes of awkward fumbling while a delivery van waited patiently behind us. It wasn’t quite the elegant arrival I’d pictured.

The cottage sits just back from the harbour, tucked into a quiet lane where the smell of salt and frying chips drifts up from the front. First impressions were instant: low ceilings, a wood-burner that looked well used, and a sofa so deep you had to commit to sitting in it. We left the bags by the door and stepped straight through to the garden, which was really just a pocket of lawn bordered by stone walls and a few hopeful pots of lavender. Two wooden chairs faced the sea, and that was enough for the rest of the afternoon.

We didn’t unpack properly until the next morning. Instead we made tea, carried the mugs outside, and watched a small fishing boat chug back in while gulls argued overhead. The harbour path runs right past the bottom of the garden, so every now and then a dog-walker would wave without breaking stride. It felt less like staying somewhere and more like borrowing someone’s favourite corner of the coast for a few days.

The next morning we walked the short stretch into town for bread and milk, then came straight back. The high street was already busy with families heading for the beach, but we were content to turn around at the lifeboat station and potter home again. By midday the sun had found the garden and we stayed there, taking turns to read the same paperback and nodding off between chapters. Lunch was whatever we could find in the fridge, eaten on our laps with the door wide open so we could still hear the tide.

I’d half-planned to hire bikes or at least walk the coastal path as far as Saundersfoot, but each time the idea surfaced it felt like too much effort. Instead we wandered down to the harbour wall after tea and watched the little boats bob while an ice-cream van played its tune on repeat. The water was that particular Welsh grey-green that looks colder than it is, yet plenty of people were still paddling. We stayed until the light started to fade, then drifted back to the cottage and lit the wood-burner even though the evening wasn’t especially chilly.

On the final morning I woke early and took my coffee into the garden again. The tide was out, revealing a stretch of wet sand that caught the early sun. A blackbird was busy in the lavender, and from somewhere up the lane came the faint sound of a radio through an open window. I realised I hadn’t checked my phone properly since we arrived, and the thought didn’t bother me at all. For three days we’d done almost nothing except sit, read, walk a few hundred yards, and watch the weather change. It had been enough.