I’ll never forget the drive over to Anglesey – we took the A55, humming along to some cracking indie tunes, but then disaster struck just past Bangor. A massive flock of sheep decided to stage a sit-in right in the middle of the road, turning our smooth journey into a 20-minute standoff with a farmer herding them back with his dog. I was starving by then, fantasising about fish and chips, but it gave us a proper laugh and set the tone for a laid-back break.

Pulling up to our first-floor apartment in Llanfaelog, I could already smell the sea air mingling with something baking nearby – pure anticipation buzzing through me. Stepping inside and climbing those stairs, we were hit with the cosiest living space imaginable, perfect for us two. The sitting room screamed relaxation with its two comfy sofas begging for a Netflix binge, and that Smart TV on the wall was a godsend after the drive. The kitchen was kitted out just right for self-catering, with everything from a decent oven to a stack of pots – no excuses for rubbish meals here.

First morning, we wandered down to the village shop, just a stone’s throw away, stocking up on local bacon, fresh eggs, and some Welsh cheddar that could make you weep. I fancied myself as a proper chef, whipping up a full fry-up with thick sausages from the butcher’s counter. It was a bit of a hash – the eggs stuck to the pan because I got distracted chatting about the view – but slathered in HP sauce, it tasted like heaven. We scoffed it on the sofa, windows open to the sound of gulls.

Lunch was all about Newborough Beach, a quick five-minute drive. We grabbed pasties from the beach kiosk – steaming hot, stuffed with beef and spuds, flaky pastry crumbling everywhere. Sat on the sand with thermos of tea from the kitchen, it felt like the ideal wholesome getaway. That evening, we ambled to the local pub in the village, a proper Anglesey boozer with low beams and punters nursing pints. I went for the lamb shank, slow-cooked to fall-off-the-bone perfection, with mushy peas and gravy that warmed the cockles. My other half had the fish pie, loaded with smoked haddock and a cheesy mash top – we polished it off with a sticky toffee pudding shared between us, giggling over how we’d earned it after my fry-up fiasco.

Midway through the week, I had a quiet moment reflecting on why this hit different. Back home, meals are rushed microwave jobs, but here, cooking felt like an event – chopping veg from the market stall near the beach car park, sipping local craft beer while onions softened. We tried seafood risotto one night, using prawns from the fishmonger; mine was a gloopy mess (too much wine in the sauce, probably), but we laughed it off with bread to mop up.

Last day, we hit the village café for bara brith and sconces with clotted cream – proper fuel before the sheep gauntlet home. This spot’s a gem for food-loving couples; beaches on the doorstep, but it’s the pub grub, market hauls, and kitchen experiments that made it unforgettable. Can’t wait to go back for more.