We set off from Cardiff with the boot half-packed and a vague sense of having forgotten something important, and sure enough the satnav decided to send us on a scenic detour through every single roundabout in Swansea. By the time we trundled down the single-track lane to Glamping Pod 1, the sun was low and our stomachs were louder than the radio. The first thing that went wrong was the gate: it swung open with a cheerful creak, then promptly swung back and caught the corner of the wing mirror, leaving a neat little scratch that looked like it had always been there. We both stared at it for a second, then shrugged, because it already felt too late in the day to let a minor scrape spoil anything.

The pod itself sat tucked into the garden like it had grown there, all warm wood and big glass doors that caught the last of the light. A string of fairy lights was already on, even though it wasn’t properly dark, and the little deck had two folding chairs and a kettle that looked as though it had been used that morning. Inside, the bed took up most of the space in the friendliest way possible, with crisp sheets and a fleece blanket folded at the foot. There was a tiny kitchenette with a fridge that hummed like a contented cat, and the shower room smelled faintly of lavender soap someone had left behind. Everything felt deliberately simple, the sort of place that invites you to leave your phone in the car and remember what pockets are for.

We dumped our bags on the floor, kicked off our shoes, and stepped straight back outside because the air was suddenly too good to waste. The garden sloped gently toward a low hedge, beyond which you could just make out the roofs of a couple of neighbouring cottages and the distant glint of the sea if you stood on tiptoe. A robin landed on the deck rail, regarded us with mild suspicion, then hopped away again, clearly deciding we weren’t worth the bother. I poured two mugs of tea from the thermos we’d brought and we sat there in companionable silence for a while, watching the light fade over the fields.

It struck me, somewhere between the second sip and the robin’s return, how rarely I let myself arrive anywhere without already planning the next thing. The scratched wing mirror was still there, the satnav was still sulking in the glovebox, and yet the evening already felt generous. We hadn’t even unpacked properly, hadn’t walked to the beach or found the nearest pub, and none of it seemed to matter. The pod had done its job without trying: it had given us somewhere to stop, to breathe, and to notice that the sky over West Wales really does turn the colour of heather at dusk.