I’ll never forget the drive to Barmouth – we’d packed the car to the brim with snacks and cool bags, buzzing with that holiday excitement, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into a massive traffic jam just past Dolgellau. Turned out some sheep had decided the A496 was prime grazing spot, and there we were, inching along while the kids whined for crisps. By the time we rolled up to our top-floor apartment on Marine Parade, I was knackered, but one glimpse of those sea views from the sitting room window, and all was forgiven. What a stunner – beach stretching out like a welcome mat, waves crashing gently. Proper first-class first impressions.

We hauled our bags up the shared stairs – note to self: next time, pack lighter – and stepped into this split-level gem. Heart of it all was the galley kitchen on the lower level, kitted out with everything you’d need for a self-catering bash, including a dishwasher that became my new best mate. The shower room next door was spot on for rinsing off beach sand, but honestly, we spent more time faffing about in the kitchen than anywhere else. That first evening, with the sun dipping over the Irish Sea, we cracked open some local cider and rustled up a massive pasta bake using stuff we’d grabbed en route. The recliners in the sitting room were perfect for lounging post-feast, views making it feel like we were on a cruise ship.

Next morning, beach views greeting us with that fresh sea air, we wandered into town – it’s literally a stroll away. Barmouth’s got this brilliant bustle without being overwhelming, and the food scene? Oh mate, it’s a dream for grazers like us. We hit the little market near the high street first thing, stocking up on Welsh cheeses, fresh bread, and plump strawberries that tasted like summer. I had a right laugh trying to haggle with the stallholder over some smoked mackerel – failed miserably, but it was all in the banter. Back at the flat, the kids claimed the bunk bedroom with its sea views (they fought over who got the top bunk), while we took the master overlooking the rooftops and mountains. Proper comfy spots to crash after a day of munching.

Lunch was fish and chips from a harbourside spot – crispy batter, proper mushy peas, eaten on benches watching boats bob about. The harbour’s got that salty charm, and it’s steps from the beach where we flopped afterwards, bellies full. Evenings were pub crawls lite: the Last Inn for hearty lamb pies and local ales, or the Kings Arms for a ploughman’s that could feed an army. One night I attempted a full Welsh breakfast in the kitchen – cockles, laverbread, the lot – but let’s just say the cockles were a bit of an acquired taste, and I nearly set off the smoke alarm scrambling the eggs. The family ribbed me mercilessly, but sat round the dining landing tucking into it anyway, planning the next day’s eats over board games.

Reflecting on it now, holidays like this remind me how daft I can be in the kitchen, but that’s the joy – no pressure, just good grub and better company. We’d gather in the sitting room, leather chairs creaking as we debated fish suppers versus takeaway curry from the high street. Barmouth’s indie shops tempted us with fudge and bara brith, and those harbour cafés did cracking crab sandwiches. Never did make it far beyond a five-minute wander, but with Snowdonia peeking in the distance and all this nosh on tap, who needed to? It was pure, greedy bliss – already plotting a return for more.