We set off from Swansea in what felt like a proper autumn drizzle, the kind that sneaks under your collar and makes the sat-nav seem further away than it really is. Halfway along the Mumbles Road I realised I’d left the cottage key in the glovebox of the other car, which meant a quick u-turn and a sheepish grin from the passenger seat. By the time we pulled up to the little lodge tucked behind a row of pastel houses, the rain had eased and the sea was just visible beyond the rooftops.

The place was smaller than the photos suggested, but in the nicest way: a neat wooden porch, a single bedroom with a bed that took up most of the floor, and a kitchenette barely big enough for two chopping boards. We dumped our bags, flicked the kettle on, and immediately started planning tea. The local Tesco Express was only a five-minute stroll, so we nipped out for bread, eggs, bacon and a packet of Welsh cakes that looked too good to leave on the shelf.

Back at the lodge we tried to cook something simple. The hob was temperamental—one ring worked perfectly, the other flickered like it had a grudge—so our scrambled eggs ended up half creamy, half chewy. Still, eaten on the little table by the window with the rain tapping the glass, they tasted like the start of a proper break. Later we wandered down to the front for fish and chips from the kiosk near the pier. The portions were generous, the batter properly crisp, and we ate them straight from the paper while watching a cormorant dive for its own supper.

The next morning we headed to the little Saturday market that sets up near Oystermouth Castle. Stalls offered fresh cockles, laverbread, and jars of homemade chutney. We bought a couple of Welsh rarebit slices and a tub of cockles to take back, then stopped at a bakery for still-warm pasties. Back at the lodge we spread everything on the counter and attempted to recreate a proper Welsh breakfast. The rarebit grilled nicely under the tiny oven’s grill, but the cockles, when I tried warming them through, went a touch rubbery. We laughed, added plenty of vinegar, and decided they were still edible if you didn’t think too hard about texture.

By evening we fancied something heartier, so we walked the short distance to a cosy pub that locals call The Park. The menu leaned heavily on local produce: slow-cooked lamb, haddock in a cheddar crumb, and a vegetarian cauliflower cheese that arrived bubbling. We ordered the lamb and the fish between us, along with a pint of Brains and a glass of Welsh cider. The portions were generous enough that we asked for takeaway boxes, which we reheated the next day for lunch back at the lodge.

Our final morning was all about using up what we had left. I tried turning the leftover lamb into a quick shepherd’s pie, using mash from a packet we’d picked up at the market. The little oven managed it, though the top browned faster on one side than the other. We ate it straight from the dish, perched on the edge of the bed because the table was covered in maps and receipts. It felt oddly luxurious, eating something home-cooked in a place that wasn’t home.

Throughout the three days, the rhythm of shopping, cooking, and eating shaped everything else. The sea was there, the castle was there, but what we talked about most was the next meal and whether we’d have enough milk for tea. Leaving the lodge felt sudden; the key went back into the lockbox, the porch light clicked off, and we drove away already planning the next trip with a bigger frying pan.