We’d barely turned off the A478 when the satnav decided to lead us down a single-track lane that looked like it belonged in a postcard rather than on any sensible route. I was convinced it was a shortcut until we met a tractor coming the other way, forcing me to reverse into a hedge with all the grace of a reversing lorry. By the time we pulled up outside The Heritage Park Tranquillity, the kids were already giggling at my muddy trainers and I was quietly promising myself a quiet cuppa before anything else happened.

The cottage sat neatly in a small cluster of similar stone-and-slate lodges, each tucked behind low hedges that made the place feel more like a private hamlet than a holiday park. Our keys were waiting in a little lockbox by the door, and stepping inside felt instantly homely—wooden floors that creaked just enough to announce you were there, a sofa big enough for the four of us to sprawl, and the faint scent of woodsmoke from the stove someone had thoughtfully lit earlier. The children disappeared straight into the twin room, already claiming beds, while my partner and I stood in the kitchen doorway admiring the little touches: a welcome basket of local Welsh cakes and a handwritten note suggesting we try the nearby bakery for fresh bread each morning.

We unpacked in that half-hearted holiday way—shoes kicked off, coats slung over chairs—then wandered out to explore the grounds. The park’s central lawn stretched away towards a small play area where a couple of other families were already kicking a ball about. Our youngest joined in without a second thought, leaving the rest of us to claim a bench and watch the slow drift of late-afternoon light across the fields. It was the sort of scene that made you realise how seldom we actually sit still together anymore.

Dinner was simple: sausages from the village shop and a mountain of mash that somehow tasted better because we’d cooked it on the little electric hob rather than our usual fancy one at home. Afterwards we played a noisy round of Uno at the kitchen table while rain tapped the skylight above us. Every so often one of the children would glance up and ask if we could go down to the beach tomorrow, and I’d nod, already picturing the short walk through the lanes to Tenby’s harbour.

Later, once the little ones were asleep, I stood by the window listening to the soft hush of the countryside and felt that familiar tug of guilt for how rarely we switch off. The cottage wasn’t grand or flashy, but it had already worked its quiet magic—slowing us down, making us laugh at small things, and reminding me that three days without rushing might be exactly what we needed.