The rain caught us properly on the final stretch into Tenby, and just as we were congratulating ourselves on spotting the tiny lane to The Heritage Park, I managed to take a wrong turning and ended up nose-to-nose with a very unimpressed sheep in a lay-by. By the time we reversed out and found the right gate, the cottage windows were glowing against the slate-grey sky and the air already smelled of wet grass and woodsmoke.

The Hideaway sits tucked into the edge of Heritage Park, a short stroll from the town walls. From the porch you can hear the sea even when you can’t see it, and that first evening the tide was out, leaving wide, empty sands that looked almost silver in the low light. We dumped our bags, pulled on waterproof jackets, and decided a quick loop round the harbour would shake off the drive. The harbour path was slick underfoot, and every few steps a gust tried to flip my hood backwards. Still, there was something cheering about watching the fishing boats rock against the quay while the lights from the cafés flickered on one by one.

Next morning the forecast had promised “bright intervals,” which in Wales usually means the sun will appear for exactly long enough to make you peel off a layer before the next cloud rolls in. We set out anyway, aiming for the coastal path towards Lydstep. The first mile was glorious: salt air, skylarks, and that satisfying crunch of gravel under boots. Then the heavens opened, properly this time, turning the path into a small stream. We huddled under a dripping hawthorn, laughing at how quickly our “light shower” had become a full-on drenching. Ten minutes later the rain eased to a fine mist and we squelched on, boots heavy, trousers clinging, but the cliffs had turned a richer green and the sea below was almost turquoise where shafts of sunlight broke through.

By the time we reached the viewpoint above Giltar Point my waterproof trousers had given up the fight, yet the view made every soggy step worthwhile. We stood there, steam rising off our jackets, watching curlews probe the wet sand far below. The weather had forced us to move slower, to notice the way the light changed every thirty seconds, and I found myself thinking how rarely I actually stop like that at home. It felt oddly luxurious to be properly weather-beaten rather than rushing to the next Instagram spot.

That afternoon the clouds cleared just long enough for us to attempt the walk back along the beach. The tide was coming in, so we picked our way between rock pools, stopping to watch a family of oystercatchers skitter ahead of the waves. Every so often a rogue gust would fling a handful of spray at us, and we’d yelp and laugh like children. By the time we reached the harbour steps my calves ached in the best way and my waterproofs were doing a very convincing impression of a swimming costume.

Back at the cottage we hung everything to dry above the wood burner, filled the kettle, and watched the light fade over the garden. The day hadn’t gone to plan, yet the unplanned bits—the sudden downpours, the muddy detours, the sheep that had judged my driving—were exactly what made it feel like a proper Welsh weekend. I sat on the sofa, feet finally warm, and realised I hadn’t checked my phone in hours. The rain tapping on the window sounded less like an inconvenience and more like permission to stay put for a while.