I’ll never forget the drive over to Anglesey – we’d packed the car to bursting with wellies, 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 like we were in a funeral cortege, and I’m sat there thinking, “Great start, mate – the kids’ll mutiny before we even see the sea.” But once we crossed the bridge, with the Menai Straits sparkling below, all that faded. By the time we rolled into Benllech, I was buzzing, proper excited for that first salty gust of Welsh sea air.

The place was a belter – a first-floor apartment right in the thick of it, up a flight of external stairs to our own door. Stepping into the hallway, dumping coats and kicking off sandy trainers, it felt like instant holiday mode. Open-plan living with a cracking kitchen and breakfast bar flowing into the sofa area, and that balcony? Blimey, views straight over the beach and out to the Irish Sea. First impressions? Spot on. The kids legged it down to the sand 200 yards away before we’d even unpacked, while I cracked open a tea and just soaked it in.

What made it though, weren’t the fancy bits – it was the locals. Benllech’s got this quirky crowd that pulls you in like a riptide. First evening, we wandered to the village centre for fish and chips. Queueing up at the chippy, I got chatting to Dai, the chap behind the counter – moustache like a handlebar from a penny farthing, serving up battered sausage like it was an Olympic event. “First time here, is it?” he grinned, eyeing my Geordie accent. “You’ll love the beach – mind the jellyfish, they’re feisty this year!” Turned out Dai’s family had run the place for generations, and he regaled us with tales of smuggling brandy back in the day, all with a wink and a nudge. We left with extra mushy peas and a belly laugh.

Next morning, beachcombing along the coastal path at the end of our road, we bumped into Mrs Evans – or “Nanny Ev” as the kids dubbed her. She was out with her ancient spaniel, picking winkles from rock pools, decked in a floppy hat and wellies that’d seen better decades. “Ooh, you’re the lot in the upstairs flat!” she chirped, spotting our balcony towels flapping. Proper nosy in the best way, she insisted we try her secret cove spot, just a mile along, riddled with fossil-hunting gold. Over a thermos of tea on the picnic area benches, she shared how Benllech was her playground as a kid, dodging Nazi spotter planes in the war. “Life’s too short for dull holidays,” she said, patting my arm. Made me reflect – here I am, mid-forties, still chasing that kid-like wonder, and she’d nailed it at 80-odd.

Pub that night sealed it. The local was heaving with characters: grizzled fishermen swapping yarns about seals pinching their lobster pots, and a poet bloke reciting haikus about Red Wharf Bay sunsets. One pint in, I’m deep in convo with Tom the barman, who’s got a laugh like a foghorn and insists Anglesey’s the real Wales – “None of that touristy Snowdon malarkey!” The kids charmed a table of OAPs into dominoes, and we staggered home giggling.

Those chats, those faces – they turned a cracking apartment stay into something magic. Benllech’s beach, the walks, the cafés? Lovely. But it’s the people who’ll have me back. Proper reminded me holidays aren’t just escaping – they’re connecting. Can’t wait for round two.