I’ll never forget the drive over to Trearddur Bay – we’d packed the car to the gills with beach towels, a cool bag of snacks, and enough books to last a siege. About halfway across the Menai Bridge, disaster struck: the satnav decided to have a midlife crisis and rerouted us down some winding back lane that felt like it hadn’t seen tarmac since the war. We ended up in a queue of sheep, laughing our heads off as the farmer gave us a cheery wave. By the time we rolled into the village, I was buzzing with that proper holiday anticipation – you know, the kind where you imagine sunsets and sandcastles, even if the sky’s looking a bit iffy.

Pulling up to the place, my first impressions were spot on. It’s this fresh, friendly first-floor apartment in a peaceful residential spot, done up to a really high standard – think crisp whites, comfy sofas, and everything just feeling welcoming, like slipping into an old friend’s spare room. There’s a handy garage too, perfect for stashing wetsuits and bikes if you’re that way inclined, but honestly, we barely cracked it open. It’s an easy stroll to the sandy beach from here, which had me grinning before we’d even unpacked.

What I loved most, though, was how it nudged us into doing bugger all – and I mean that in the best possible way. Anglesey’s got all sorts: kayaking around the headlands, puffin spotting at South Stack cliffs just down the road, or a brisk walk along the coastal path to the headland. But us? Nah. We embraced the lazy cottage life like pros. Mornings started slow, brewing tea in the sunlit kitchen, then spilling out to the garden with mugs in hand. It’s a proper little haven – sheltered, with that sea breeze whispering through, and just wild enough to feel alive without demanding a mower.

I’d flop into a lounger with a dog-eared paperback – mine was some cracking thriller I’d been saving – while the other half dozed off with a podcast about Welsh myths. Lunch was picnic-style: cheese ploughman’s from the local shop in the bay, eaten under the garden parasol as gulls wheeled overhead. Afternoons blurred into siestas, maybe a gentle potter to the beach for a paddle in the shallows, toes in the cool Irish Sea sand, but nothing that raised the heart rate. Evenings? Cosy dinners of fresh crab from Trearddur’s seafood stall – picked up on a whim – washed down with a crisp Welsh cider, all while the sun dipped low over the bay.

There was this one moment, staring out at the waves from the garden as dusk settled, when it hit me: I’m always rushing about back home, ticking boxes like a mad thing. Here, time just stretched out, lazy and golden. No schedules, no screens pinging – just the joy of slowing right down, letting the island’s quiet magic seep in. It was the holiday I didn’t know I needed, a reminder that sometimes the best adventures are the ones where you stay put. Can’t wait to go back and do even less.