I’ll never forget the drive over to Anglesey – we’d loaded up the car with the dog, a cool box stuffed with essentials, and enough snacks to see us through a siege, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into a massive traffic snarl-up just past Bangor. Half an hour of inching along, with the kids bickering in the back and Rufus the spaniel whining for his treats, and I’m thinking, “This better be worth it.” But as we finally rolled into Rhosneigr, that classic seaside buzz hit us – salty air, gulls wheeling overhead, and the promise of beach walks ahead. Spotting our ground-floor apartment tucked right by the dunes, moments from the sand, my heart lifted. It looked spot-on: cosy two-bed setup, perfect for us lot plus the dog, with that open-plan living space screaming “relax here.”

First impressions? Bloody brilliant – sorry, blooming brilliant. We dumped the bags and cracked open a bottle of wine at the dining table for four, toasting our arrival while Rufus sniffed every corner. The kitchen was a dream: dishwasher, washer/dryer, all the gadgets to make self-catering a doddle. No faffing about with dodgy hobs here. I fancied myself as the holiday chef, so dinner that night was my heroic attempt at seafood linguine, using fresh prawns we’d grabbed from the local shop en route. It wasn’t MasterChef, mind – a bit overcooked and salty – but washed down with that vino, it hit the spot. Laughing about my culinary wobbles over the table felt like proper holiday magic.

Next morning, we wandered down to the beach for a bracing dog walk, then straight into village mode: hunting out the best eats. Rhosneigr’s got that cracking little hub of spots within spitting distance. We hit the farm shop first – think local cheeses, artisan breads, and pots of crab meat that smelled like heaven. Loaded up with goodies, I had another bash at cooking: posh fish pie with Anglesey spuds and smoked haddock from their fresh counter. Turned out half-decent this time, especially with a side of samphire we foraged (well, bought) nearby. The kids demolished it, and Rufus got his titbit.

Evenings were pub perfection. The Sandbank right on the front does banging fish and chips – crispy batter, mushy peas, the works – with outdoor tables for people-watching and a pint of local bitter. One night, we tried the Oyster Lodge, just a short stroll, for their moules marinières. Steamy bowls of mussels in creamy garlic sauce, crusty bread to mop up – pure bliss. I even snuck in a cheeky pud: sticky toffee with clotted cream. Fuelled by all this, daytime saunters took us to the weekly market in the village hall, where stallholders hawk homemade bara brith, Welsh cakes still warm from the griddle, and jars of local honey. Bargain-hunted some black pudding for brekkie experiments back at the flat – fried up with eggs, it was a proper gut-buster.

Funny how food takes over on these trips, isn’t it? Sat there one rainy afternoon, rain lashing the windows while I whipped up a curry from market veg and chicken from the butchers, I had a proper moment. Work stress? Miles away. Just us, full bellies, and the sea’s rhythm outside. We wrapped up with a final pub crawl – chips from the takeaway, eaten on the beach at sunset. Rhosneigr’s food scene had us hooked; if you’re after proper, unfussy holiday nosh with a side of sand, this is your spot. Can’t wait to go back.