We set off from Swansea in light rain, which of course meant I’d forgotten the satnav charger and had to rely on my phone’s patchy signal all the way out to the Gower. Just outside Parkmill I took a wrong turn onto a single-track lane and ended up reversing into a hedge, scattering a few startled sheep and giving the car a nice coat of bracken dust. By the time we pulled up at Glamping Tri Pod 6 the rain had eased and the pod looked quietly inviting, a neat wooden circle tucked behind a low stone wall with views across fields to the sea.

Inside, the space felt surprisingly roomy for something round. There was a small kitchenette with a two-ring hob, a fridge just big enough for milk and bacon, and a kettle that boiled in under a minute—important, as we’d arrived hungry. We unpacked the cool-bag we’d filled at Swansea Market earlier that morning: fresh cockles, a wedge of Caerphilly, a crusty loaf from the stall near the Guildhall, and a couple of Welsh cakes still warm from the griddle. We spread everything on the little fold-down table and ate standing up, the pod’s windows steamed from the kettle.

Later we wandered the short path down to the village pub, The Ship at Pennard, where the menu was handwritten on a chalkboard and the landlord greeted us like regulars. We ordered cockle and laverbread cakes with a side of thick-cut chips, washed down with a pint of Gower Gold. The portions were generous enough that we boxed the leftovers for breakfast, which felt both thrifty and slightly optimistic given the size of our tiny fridge.

The next morning I attempted a proper fry-up on the two-ring hob. I’d bought local sausages and back bacon from the butcher in Southgate, plus eggs from the honesty box at the farm gate. It went well until the toast caught under the grill and set off the smoke alarm, which turned out to be a tiny battery one wedged above the door. We ended up eating outside on the decking, balancing plates on our knees while the pod aired out. The sausages were excellent, though, and the view of the fields made the charred toast forgivable.

By midday we’d driven the five minutes to Rhossili and parked near the beach café for a late lunch of crab sandwiches and hot chocolate. The crab was sweet and fresh, the bread thickly buttered, and we sat on a bench watching the tide creep in. On the way back we stopped at the small honesty stall by the lane, picking up a jar of homemade damson jam and a couple of apples for the pod’s fruit bowl.

That evening we tried cooking properly. I’d planned a simple cawl using the lamb we’d bought at the market, but the pod’s single saucepan proved too small for the quantities I’d optimistically bought. We ended up making a sort of stew in stages, adding vegetables as space allowed, and ate it with hunks of bread by the glow of the pod’s fairy lights. It tasted better than it looked, and we laughed at how the carrots had gone a bit mushy while the potatoes stayed stubbornly firm.

The following day we returned to The Ship for Sunday lunch, this time ordering the roast beef with all the trimmings. The Yorkshire puddings were crisp, the gravy dark and glossy, and we left feeling comfortably full. Back at the pod we made tea and finished the last of the Welsh cakes, watching the light fade over the fields.

There’s something quietly grounding about eating your way through a place like this. I’d arrived thinking the pod would be the main event, but it was the meals—the market hauls, the pub plates, the slightly chaotic cooking attempts—that turned three days into a proper, memorable stay.