I’ll never forget the drive over to Anglesey – we’d packed the car to bursting with welly boots, board games and enough crisps to siege a castle, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into a massive traffic jam just past Bangor. Some cheeky diversion sign had us crawling along at snail’s pace, and I swear the kids were plotting mutiny in the back. But as we finally trundled into Rhosneigr on the west coast, the sun breaking through over the dunes, all that stress melted away. There it was, our holiday apartment perched with those cracking panoramic sea views, all bright and airy inside. The open-plan living space hit us straight off – sumptuous corner sofa begging for a family flop-out, telly with DVDs for movie nights, and a kitchen kitted out proper with oven, hob, microwave and a dining table ready for scoffing down meals. First impressions? Spot on. We were buzzing.

No sooner had we dumped the bags than we wandered down to the beach, and that’s when the real magic kicked in – the locals. First up was Dai, this wiry fisherman type with a beard like a bird’s nest, casting his line off the rocks near the broad sandy stretch. “New here, eh?” he grinned, spotting our pasty English accents. Turned out he’d been hauling mackerel from these waters since before I was born. We got chatting about the best spots for crab pots – he swore by the little cove round the corner from Traeth Llydan beach, just a stone’s throw away. “Mind the seals,” he winked, “they’re nosier than my ex-wife.” Proper chuckle that was, and he even sketched a rough map on the back of a fag packet. Felt like we’d known him ages.

Next day, strolling along the coastal path towards Llanfaelog – all of five minutes’ amble – we bumped into Mrs Evans, or “Mave” as she insisted, outside her little cottage. She was this tiny dynamo in wellies, lugging a basket of foraged samphire. “You lot staying up at that sea-view flat?” she asked, eyes twinkling. Aye, we nodded. She launched into tales of Rhosneigr’s wilder days – how the surfers from the point break (that’s the one by the lifeboat station, mad waves even on calm days) used to outrun the tide like it was a personal challenge. “But you watch those lads,” she warned with a cackle, “they’re all froth and no finish.” We ended up back at the apartment with her samphire recipe, whipping it up on the induction hob for tea. The kids loved it, dipping bread straight in.

Then there was young Tommo, the lad from the beach café just down the lane. Spiky hair, tattoo of a kitesurfer on his arm – he runs the spot where everyone grabs bacon butties before hitting the dunes. “Wind’s picking up tomorrow,” he prophesied over our coffees, “perfect for a go on the water if you’re daft enough.” We weren’t, but we watched the kites dotting the sky like technicolour jellyfish, and he joined us for a natter about local lore. Reckoned the best chips are from the takeaway near the Red Wharf Bay turn-off, but shh, don’t tell the posh places.

Staying there had me reflecting a bit, you know? Amid the laughter and those easy chats, I realised how rare it is to proper connect on hols – not just ticking off sights, but letting quirky characters like Dai, Mave and Tommo colour the days. No Instagram perfection, just real North Wales warmth. We left with full bellies, fuller hearts, and a promise to return. Anglesey’s got under our skin.