By far my best Christmas trip: a cottage on the Pembrokeshire coast

And then the dreaded words were spoken: "Let's all leave for Christmas."

We prepared for the avalanche of opposition, especially from the most formidable neighborhoods: children and grandparents. Like most families, we were torn apart by deaths, divorces, distance and Marmite. Christmas had become a crazy shuttle between familiar places: picking up people, dropping off others, constantly eating. How many times in a day can you say with conviction to several different loved ones: "Yes, your Christmas cake is the best"? And constantly making amends, "I'm sorry, but we left all your gifts at the last house we were at. Everything is so rushed…"

At first, perversely , I enjoyed spending part of Christmas Day on the M62, but the traffic increased every year and there was the horror of replacing forgotten gifts in the motorway services: "We didn't know what to get you, so ..."

"We thought that it would go with the wiper blades we bought from you last year."

However, the response to our "Christmas away" suggestion came as a shock . Instead of vitriol, we got total agreement and a wave of enthusiasm. It was a kind of bliss, as Christmas should be, but often isn't. There were cries of "pool!" and "Tuscany", but we ignored them. I already knew where we were going.

Three years earlier, while walking the Wales Coast Path, I had passed an old stone house secluded in gorse bushes on top of a cliff. There was not another dwelling within a mile, nor a store within five. It was big, but looked cozy too.

Further along the way on the Marloes Peninsula, I climbed a cliff to a beach which only existed at low tide, expecting to have the place all to myself. But there was a lone fisherman fishing for bass. We discussed angling. I asked where he was staying. He laughed, “There's only one place – it's up there. This is a vacation home owned by a friend's parents. I don't think they advertise - it's way too far for most people. No phone, and no wifi either."

Now, three years later, I find myself trying to remember the name of this place. I couldn't. I tried all kinds of maps. I walked, virtually on Google Earth, less than a mile, looking for signs. I called the nearest garage and asked the owner. He had never heard of it Tried the nearest shop and pub then a mobile hairdresser and a fish and chip van that drove around the area Nothing In the end - brilliant idea - I figured out which farm owned the land next door and called them and they gave me a number.

The woman who answered seemed a bit surprised "We usually don't leave it o...