We’d barely left the M4 when the satnav decided to send us down a single-track lane that turned into a mud slide after the morning’s rain. By the time we’d reversed out and found the right turning for Salt and Fern Cabins, our boots were already caked and the car floor was a Jackson Pollock of West Wales clay. Cabin No. 3 stood at the end of a short gravel track, its wooden porch facing a hedge thick with ferns. The key was tucked under the boot scraper exactly as the host had promised, and stepping inside felt like walking into someone’s well-loved living room rather than a rental.

The first thing I noticed was the kitchen. A proper range cooker sat under a low beam, and the fridge had already been stocked with a loaf from the village bakery and a block of Welsh butter. We dumped our bags, wiped the worst of the mud from our shoes, and decided to christen the place with a proper fry-up. Sausages from the butcher in Port Talbot sizzled alongside thick bacon, while eggs from a nearby farm turned the plate into something worth photographing. We ate at the little table by the window, watching a robin hop along the fence, and already the three-hour drive felt like a distant memory.

Later that afternoon we wandered down the lane to the weekly market in the square. Stalls offered wheels of Caerphilly, jars of pickled onions, and bunches of leeks still damp from the field. We came away with a bag of laverbread and a couple of oatcakes, the sort of purchases that always sound better than they look until you actually taste them. Back at the cabin we tried our hand at laverbread cakes, mixing the seaweed with mashed potato and frying them until the edges went crisp. They were edible, just about, though the less said about the smoke alarm the better.

That evening we strolled the half-mile to the local pub, The Red Lion, where the menu leaned heavily on whatever had come off the boats that morning. I ordered the cockles with bacon and sourdough, and my partner went for the Welsh rarebit made with mature cheddar and a generous splash of ale. The portions were generous enough that we ended up sharing chips anyway, and we sat by the fire swapping notes on whose dinner had been the winner. A couple at the next table were debating whether to try the black pudding the next night; we filed the suggestion away for future reference.

Sunday morning brought a lazy start and another crack at the kitchen. We’d bought smoked mackerel from the market and decided to turn it into kedgeree, which mostly involved chucking rice, spices and a knob of butter into one pan while trying not to burn the eggs in another. It was edible, again, and the cabin’s open-plan layout meant we could keep an eye on both pans without tripping over each other. The smell lingered pleasantly long after we’d cleared the plates, mixing with the faint scent of woodsmoke from the stove.

By the time we left on Monday the car was still muddy, the kitchen smelled faintly of seaweed, and we’d used every plate in the cupboard. The mishap on the lane felt like the perfect opener to a weekend that had been less about grand plans and more about what we could fit on a plate. As we pulled away I caught myself wondering whether the next trip might involve fewer attempts at laverbread and more time simply sitting by that window, watching the robin and letting someone else do the cooking.