I’ll never forget the drive over to Anglesey – we took the Britannia Bridge from the mainland, hearts racing with that proper holiday buzz, only for me to miss the turning for Menai Bridge and end up looping round Beaumaris way like a right numpty. A quick U-turn and 10 minutes later, we were pulling up to this cracking little spot tucked behind a family-run bookshop on the high street. It’s an architect-designed compact ground floor studio apartment, full of character, named after some 19th-century local poet who cheekily proposed to Queen Victoria in rhyme. Used to be a bakehouse back in the day, and you can feel that heritage blended right into its cosy, contemporary vibe. First impressions? Magic. The sea air hit us straight away, and from the rear windows, you could just glimpse the Menai Strait twinkling.

But honestly, the real gem was the characters we met – it’s like the place is a magnet for proper Anglesey eccentrics. Right off the bat, there was Gwyn, the bookshop owner, who handed us the keys with a wink and a story about his nan baking bread there in the 1920s. “Mind the poet’s ghost,” he chuckled, “he’s still sweet on royals – don’t leave any tiaras lying about!” We laughed, but he wasn’t done; over a cuppa in his cluttered shop the next morning, he regaled us with tales of the poet’s failed nuptials, mimicking the old boy’s Welsh lilt so spot-on I nearly spilled my tea. Gwyn’s the sort who knows everyone’s business but keeps it light – he even tipped us off on the best crab sandwiches at the Tafarn Skerries pub down the road.

Then there was Dilys, the no-nonsense fishmonger at the Friday market just a stroll away on the high street. We popped out for breakfast supplies, and she clocked our accents straight off. “English lot, eh? Don’t worry, we’ll convert you to cockles yet!” She piled our bag high with fresh mackerel from the Strait, gratis, and launched into a yarn about her uncle who once fished with the poet’s grandson. “Man proposed to the Queen and all, but couldn’t catch a herring to save his life!” Her laugh was infectious, gravelly from years of shouting over seagulls. We ended up chatting for half an hour, her dissecting local gossip – who’s feuding over the best pier spot, that sort of thing.

Further chats pulled us into the orbit of Huw, the retired ferryman supping at the Bridge Inn. We bumped into him on a blustery walk along the shore path towards Trefdraeth Bay, barely a mile off. Wind-whipped and rosy-cheeked, he insisted we join for a pint. “Seen more tides than you’ve had hot dinners,” he boasted, before spinning tales of smuggling yarns from the old days and how the poet once rowed out to serenade a duke’s daughter. Huw’s eyes lit up like a kid’s; he even recited a dodgy couplet from memory, word-perfect after 50 years.

Staying there had me reflecting a bit – amid the bustle of Menai Bridge, with its bridge views and ferry comings-and-goings, it’s easy to get swept up in your own little world. But these locals? They remind you holidays aren’t just about the scenery; they’re about the folk who make a place hum. We left buzzing from the chats, already plotting a return. If you’re after a stay that feels like stepping into a living storybook, this is it.