I’ll never forget the drive over to Anglesey – we’d packed the car to the brim with wellies, binoculars, and enough crisps to siege a castle, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into a cheeky detour through some narrow lanes that had me white-knuckling the wheel. A sheep decided to play chicken right in front of us, forcing an emergency stop that sent the crisps flying like confetti. Laughing it off, we finally rolled up to this gorgeous apartment perched right on the water’s edge, accessed by a sturdy set of stairs. From the moment we stepped in, it felt like a hug – cosy, well-appointed with comfy furnishings that screamed “kick off your shoes and unwind”. The sitting room views? Phenomenal. Straight out to the sea, perfect for families or mates escaping the city grind. I was buzzing with anticipation, imagining lazy beach days ahead.

But honestly, the real magic wasn’t the scenery – it was the locals. First off, there was Dai, the chap who runs the little newsagent down by the pier in Beaumaris. I popped in for milk the morning after we arrived, and before I knew it, he was regaling me with tales of the old smuggling days around Menai Strait. “Lads used to row barrels of brandy right under the noses of the revenue men,” he winked, his eyes twinkling like he’d been there himself. He’s got this infectious chuckle, and insisted on throwing in a free pasty “for the English visitors”. Proper character, Dai – made me feel like I’d known him for years.

Then there’s Mrs Evans from the tearoom just a stone’s throw away. We wandered in for a cream tea, and she clocked us as holidaymakers straight away. “You here for the eisteddfod spirit?” she asked, plonking down scones the size of saucers. Turned out she’s been entering the local poetry comps since she was knee-high, reciting verses about the tides and the druids who once roamed these shores. We got chatting about the Red Squirrels up at Newborough Forest – she swears they’re cheekier than the tourists – and before long, she was sharing her nan’s recipe for bara brith, complete with a dramatic flourish about how the Welsh knit their jumpers tighter than their secrets. Her warmth had us lingering for hours, toes tapping to some folk tune humming from the radio.

Even on our coastal amble towards the castle, we bumped into young Rhys, fly-fishing off the rocks. Barely out of school, but he knew every bird call and crab hidey-hole. “Watch for the seals at low tide,” he grinned, reeling in a mackerel with the ease of a pro. He told us about the village choir’s summer concert – “They do a cracking rendition of Men of Harlech” – and how the locals still mark the solstice with a quiet gathering on the beach opposite. Chatting with him felt like unlocking a secret map of the place.

Strolling back to the apartment as the sun dipped, wine glass in hand on that epic sofa, I had a proper moment of reflection. Amid the chatter and characters, I realised how rare it is to stumble into spots where strangers become mates in minutes. Anglesey’s got that pull – not just the sea lapping at your doorstep, but the people who make you want to linger. Can’t wait to go back and catch up with Dai’s next yarn.