We set off from the M4 in good time, but somewhere near Llanelli the satnav decided to reroute us down a lane so narrow the hedges brushed both wing mirrors. I clipped a low branch with the passenger mirror and heard that tell-tale crack; nothing dramatic, just a reminder that West Wales isn’t interested in straight lines. When we finally bumped into the gravel drive of The Family Pod in Gower, the sun was already low over the fields and the pod itself looked like a friendly wooden bubble tucked against a hedge. Inside, the kettle was easy to find and the beds smelled faintly of fresh linen, so we dumped our bags and stepped straight out again, keen to see what the evening had in store.

We had meant to follow the obvious coastal path that runs from the car park at Rhossili, yet after twenty minutes we realised we’d taken the wrong stile and were now walking inland through quiet lanes lined with foxgloves. A handwritten sign pointing to “Pwll Du” caught my eye, so we followed it on a whim. The track narrowed into a sunken green tunnel, then opened onto a small pebble cove where the only sounds were the sea and a couple of oystercatchers. No ice-cream vans, no car park; just driftwood and the distant outline of Worm’s Head. We stayed until the light faded, then picked our way back by torchlight, laughing at how easily we’d got ourselves turned around.

The next morning we woke to birdsong and the smell of toast from the pod’s little kitchenette. Instead of heading for the better-known beaches, we drove a few hundred yards to a farm track marked only by a faded “Public Footpath” arrow. Half a mile later the path dropped into a wooded dingle where a hidden waterfall tumbled over mossy rocks. We hadn’t packed a picnic, so we sat on a fallen log and shared a packet of ginger biscuits we’d bought in the village shop. A robin came close enough to inspect the crumbs, and for a while neither of us spoke.

Getting properly lost became our unintentional theme. On the final afternoon we followed a single-track lane that seemed to lead nowhere until it ended at a tiny churchyard perched above the cliffs. The gate was unlocked, the grass neatly trimmed, and the view stretched all the way to the misty line of Pembrokeshire. We found a bench and watched a kestrel hover over the bracken. It felt like the sort of place you only stumble upon when you stop worrying about where you’re meant to be.

Back at the pod that evening, I realised how little of the weekend had gone to plan and how much richer it had been for it. The cracked mirror was still there, the satnav was still sulking, yet we’d found a waterfall, an empty cove and a churchyard none of us had ever heard of. Sometimes the best parts of a short break in West Wales are the ones you never meant to find.