We set off later than planned, and somewhere near the outskirts of Llanelli I managed to pour half a takeaway coffee down my front, which at least kept me awake for the final stretch. By the time we turned into the little lane for Lodge 3 the rain had eased to a soft drizzle, and the timber-clad lodge looked exactly the sort of place you hope for after a damp drive: warm lights glowing behind the windows, a stack of logs by the door, and the smell of woodsmoke drifting from somewhere nearby.

Inside, the kitchen was the first thing we noticed. A proper hob, a decent oven, and a fridge already humming with the milk and butter we’d picked up on the way. We dumped our bags, flicked the kettle on, and made a plan that revolved almost entirely around what we were going to eat over the next three days. First stop: the little Co-op in Llanelli itself for bread, eggs, bacon, and a couple of Welsh cakes that looked too good to leave behind. We also grabbed a tub of cockles from the fish counter, promising ourselves we’d try them for breakfast like proper locals.

That first evening we walked the short distance into the town centre, raincoats zipped, and found a cosy pub with low beams and a menu chalked on a blackboard. The cawl was thick and hearty, served with a slab of Caerphilly that crumbled just right, and the landlord’s dog kept wandering over to check we were enjoying it. We shared a portion of laverbread cakes as well, more out of curiosity than anything, and they turned out to be surprisingly moreish with a squeeze of lemon. By the time we wandered back to the lodge the sky had cleared enough for us to see a handful of stars, and we decided tomorrow would be market day.

Saturday morning we headed to the weekly market just off the high street, stalls under striped awnings selling everything from fresh cockles to jars of local honey. We bought a crusty loaf, some thick-cut bacon, and a small wheel of Perl Las blue cheese that the stallholder insisted we try before we paid. Back at Lodge 3 we spread everything across the kitchen counter and attempted a proper cooked breakfast, complete with the cockles warmed through in a little butter. It wasn’t quite café standard, but the smell filled the whole lodge and we ate it at the little table by the window, watching the fields beyond the garden turn gold in the morning light.

Lunch was simpler: doorstep sandwiches made with the market bread and slabs of that Perl Las, washed down with mugs of strong tea. We spent the afternoon pottering between the lodge and the nearby lanes, stopping at a tiny village shop for more milk and a packet of Welsh cakes we somehow convinced ourselves were for “research.” Dinner that night was our most ambitious attempt yet: pan-fried sea bass from the fishmonger in Llanelli, with new potatoes and leeks from the market. The fish was fresh enough that we barely needed seasoning, though I did manage to over-salt the leeks out of sheer enthusiasm. We ate it with the last of the bread, mopping up the buttery juices, and afterwards sat with the doors open listening to the quiet of the countryside.

By Sunday morning the fridge was looking decidedly emptier, so we made a final trip to the Co-op for bacon and eggs and treated ourselves to one last full Welsh breakfast on the lodge’s little deck. Sitting there with a second cup of tea, watching the clouds drift over the hills, I found myself thinking how much of any holiday ends up being measured in meals shared and small disasters in the kitchen. The coffee stain on my jumper was still there, but it felt like the right sort of souvenir from a weekend that had been, above all, about good food and the simple pleasure of cooking it ourselves.