I’d barely pulled the hire car into the little gravel turning for Willow Lodge when I managed to drop the keys into a puddle that looked suspiciously like it had been there since the last downpour. Tenby in March can be gloriously empty, and I was grateful for the lack of an audience as I fished them out with a stick and tried to pretend nothing had happened. The cottage itself sat at the end of a short lane just above the harbour, its whitewashed walls and slate roof exactly the sort of thing you picture when someone says “Welsh seaside stay.” A pot of tired winter pansies by the door made me feel instantly at home, even with wet shoes.

Inside, the kitchen greeted me with that pleasing mix of old beams and new appliances. I unpacked the bits I’d grabbed at the little supermarket on the way in—bread, cheese, and a packet of Welsh cakes that already felt like a cheat. The first meal was nothing fancy: thick slices of bread toasted under the grill, topped with sharp cheddar melted just so, and a pot of tea strong enough to stand a spoon in. I ate it at the scrubbed pine table while rain tapped the window, feeling properly on holiday.

The next morning I wandered down the hill to the Thursday market that sets up near the harbour. It wasn’t huge, just a handful of stalls selling fresh fish, local cheeses, and the sort of vegetables that still have soil on them. I bought a couple of fat mackerel and a wedge of Caerphilly, already imagining what I could do with them back at Willow Lodge. On the way back I stopped at the little bakery tucked behind the lifeboat station for a pasty that was still warm from the oven. Standing on the pavement eating it, flakes of pastry catching in my coat, I felt the sort of simple contentment that only a good pasty can deliver.

Lunch turned into an experiment. I’d seen a recipe online for mackerel with mustard and thought it looked straightforward enough. Twenty minutes later the smoke alarm was going off and the fish had welded itself to the pan. I opened every window, waved a tea towel like a flag of surrender, and ended up eating the less charred bits with buttered bread and a glass of red. It wasn’t a disaster so much as a reminder that I’m better at eating than cooking, but the flavour that survived was still bright and smoky, and I counted it a partial win.

That evening I wandered into the nearest pub, a low-ceilinged place with a roaring fire and the sort of menu that changes daily. I ordered the Welsh rarebit to start, which arrived bubbling and properly boozy, followed by a plate of cockles and laverbread that tasted properly of the sea. The landlord’s dog slept under the next table and occasionally thumped its tail when someone dropped a chip. I stayed longer than planned, chatting with a couple who’d driven over from Carmarthen for the seafood stew, and left feeling pleasantly full and slightly too warm from the fire.

The final morning I returned to the market for a couple of apples and a small pot of local honey. Back at the cottage I made porridge on the hob, drizzling the honey over the top while the kettle hissed. Sitting at the same pine table, watching the light change over the rooftops, I realised how little I’d actually done and how content that had made me. Three days of eating, a couple of near-misses in the kitchen, and the quiet rhythm of a small Welsh town had been exactly what I needed.