I’ll never forget the drive over to Trearddur Bay – we’d packed the car to the gills with cool bags, a cool box stuffed with sausages and veg, and the dog’s lead dangling from the mirror like a talisman. Halfway there, just past Bangor, the heavens opened and my sat-nav decided to have a midlife crisis, rerouting us down some B-road that felt like it hadn’t seen tarmac since the war. We ended up splashing through puddles big enough to drown a welly, laughing like idiots as the dog whined from the boot. But as we crested the hill into Trearddur, the rain eased, and there it was: that sparkling bay, waves lapping at the shore under a patch of blue sky. My heart lifted – this was going to be proper.

Pulling up to the second-floor apartment, I was buzzing with that arrival thrill, picturing lazy mornings with brekkie views over the sea. It didn’t disappoint. Stepping inside, the place felt like a hug from an old mate: sea glimpses from every window, a crackling electric fire ready for evenings in, and a Smart TV for when the weather turned. But honestly, the star was the spacious kitchen-diner – all gleaming and kitted out with everything you’d need to bash up a feast. Proper family territory, that, with a big table for plotting meals and the dog sprawled underfoot.

First morning, I cracked on with a full Welsh brekkie: laverbread (grabbed from a local shop the day before), cockles, bacon from the butchers in Holyhead, and eggs scrambled soft. The sea view made it taste even better, steam rising from the plates as we tucked in. We’d nipped to the Trearddur Bay market on the way – tiny but brilliant, stalls heaving with fresh crab, plump tomatoes from Anglesey growers, and artisan bread that smelled like heaven. I loaded up on smoked mackerel and local cheeses, feeling dead smug about supporting the locals.

Cooking became our holiday rhythm. One night, I attempted fish pie with cod from the bay’s waters – fresh as you like, picked up from a fisher just down the road. It was a right faff, mind: the béchamel went lumpy (note to self: practice stirring), and I nearly set off the smoke alarm wrestling with the oven. But sat round that table with mates, dog hoovering up scraps, it was gold. We washed it down with a bottle of Welsh cider from the offy, toasting our culinary triumphs.

Evenings meant pub crawls on foot – Trearddur’s got a cracking little scene. The Sandbank was first stop: cosy as, with platters of local mussels steamed in garlic and cider, and chips so crisp they shattered. Next door at the Ship, we demolished fish and chips – haddock caught that morning, battered to perfection, with mushy peas that hit the spot. Puds were a highlight: sticky toffee from the Oyster Catcher, paired with a pint of Brains. One night, rain pattering the windows back at the flat, we stayed in by the fire, reheating leftover crab linguine I’d bodged up from market pickings. Turned out lush, surprisingly.

Looking back, it was those meals that made it – the anticipation of what we’d cook next, the joy of simple, local grub shared with laughs. I caught myself one evening, fork halfway to mouth, thinking how daft it is rushing life when a bay view and a hot plate sort you right out. If you’re after a foodie seaside bolt-hole, this corner of Anglesey’s unbeatable. We’re already plotting a return for more market hauls and pub pies.