I’d barely got the car out of the first gear at the top of the hill when the sat-nav decided to send us down a lane so narrow that the wing mirrors started whispering to the hedges. By the time we’d reversed back onto the main road, my wife was laughing and the kids were pretending to be on a safari, spotting sheep through the back window. Ten minutes later we rolled into the little car park behind The Lookout, and the first thing that hit me was the smell of salt and warm stone.

The cottage sat just above the harbour wall, its whitewashed walls catching the late-afternoon sun. The key safe clicked open on the second try, and we tumbled inside to find a low-beamed sitting room already glowing from a couple of lamps left on for us. The children made straight for the squishy sofas while I stood in the doorway, breathing in the faint scent of woodsmoke and yesterday’s toast. A note on the kitchen table wished us a “lovely stay” and reminded us that the local shop was only a two-minute walk if we needed milk.

We unpacked in the leisurely way that only happens on the first afternoon of a holiday—no rush, just shoes kicked off and coats draped over chair backs. From the upstairs window I could see fishing boats bobbing against the quay and a couple of gulls arguing over a dropped chip. Downstairs, someone had left a stack of board games on the sideboard, and within minutes the Monopoly board was spread across the rug, half the pieces already missing. I found myself smiling at how quickly the place felt lived-in rather than rented.

Later we wandered down the hill into Tenby itself, the pavements still warm underfoot. The harbour cafés were closing up, but the smell of vinegar and frying batter drifted after us as we bought pasties from the little bakery on the corner. We ate them sitting on the low wall by the lifeboat station, legs swinging, crumbs everywhere. The tide was out, leaving wide stretches of damp sand where toddlers in wellies were chasing tiny crabs. My youngest declared it “the best beach ever” before promptly dropping his pasty into the pebbles.

Back at the cottage the evening settled softly. We lit the wood-burner with the basket of logs left beside the hearth, and the room filled with the gentle crackle that always makes everyone talk a bit quieter. Supper was thrown together from what we’d brought—pasta, a jar of sauce, and the emergency cheese we always pack. The children claimed the biggest sofa for a film, while I stood at the sink washing up and watching the last of the light slide off the rooftops.

There’s something about these first few hours in a new place that makes you notice the small things: the way the kettle whistles louder here, the particular creak of the third stair, the way the front door sticks just enough that you have to give it a friendly shove. I caught myself wondering, as I wiped the draining board, whether we’d remember any of the big sights we’d planned or if it would be these ordinary moments that stayed with us—the Monopoly argument, the dropped pasty, the way the harbour light winked through the sitting-room window.

By the time the film ended and the children were shepherded upstairs, the cottage had already begun to feel like ours for the weekend. I stepped out onto the little balcony for a last look at the sea, the air cool against my face, and thought how lucky we were to have three slow days ahead with nothing more pressing than finding the missing Monopoly hat.