I’ll never forget the drive over to Anglesey – we piled into the car from Manchester, kids in the back squabbling over crisps, and me navigating with a dodgy signal on my phone. About halfway, disaster struck: a rogue sheep decided to photobomb the A55, slamming on the brakes and sending my carefully packed picnic tumbling everywhere. Cheese rolls in the footwell, anyone? We laughed it off, though, and by the time we trundled down the lanes towards Red Wharf Bay, the anticipation was buzzing. That first glimpse of the sea sparkling under the clouds had us grinning like idiots.

Pulling through the gated driveway, we found heaps of parking and bounded up the external steps to this cracking detached cottage – just the ticket for our big family gang. Stepping into the large, stylish hall with its comfy seating felt like coming home, and the spacious main sitting room with its woodburner was perfect for flopping down after the chaos. But honestly, from that moment, it was all about the food. Down the stairs to the luxurious open-plan kitchen – granite worktops, central island, the lot – and we were in heaven. That first night, I fancied myself as a proper chef, rustling up a massive shepherd’s pie with spuds from the local shop in Benllech. The kids perched at the huge dining table, the rest of us on the corner sofa by the second woodburner, TV humming in the background. It wasn’t Gordon Ramsay, mind – a bit lumpy – but washed down with a bottle of plonk from the offie, it hit the spot.

Next morning, we strolled the short path to Red Wharf Bay, bellies rumbling, and hit up the beachside kiosk for bacon butties and mugs of builder’s tea. Proper fuel for a paddle in the shallows. Lunch was at the Ship Inn, just up the road – fresh crab sandwiches and chips that were crispier than my attempts at home. We spent the afternoon faffing about on the beach, then back to the cottage for a hot tub dip, plotting dinner. I tried my hand at Welsh rarebit on the island, melting cheese with a cheeky splash of ale from the local brewery we’d spotted. Turned out golden, surprisingly – even the other half gave it a thumbs up.

Evenings were pub crawls on foot: the White Eagle for pints and platters of local mussels, or the Bay Hotel for their legendary fish and chips. One night, we ambled to the little market in Llanfairpwllgwyngyll (well, the edge of it, keeping it local) for bara brith and fresh bread – inspired a disastrous but hilarious bread pudding back at base. The balcony overlooking the garden and woodland stream was prime for al fresco suppers, picking at cheeses from the farm shop near Pentraeth.

Looking back, amid all the scoffing and guffaws, I had a quiet moment by the woodburner, plate in lap, thinking how these daft cooking fails and pub feasts knit us tighter than any fancy itinerary. This spot’s a gem for feeding the soul – and the stomach. We’re already plotting a return for more.