I’ll never forget the drive to Barmouth – we took the scenic route along the A496, windows down, singing along to some dodgy 90s playlist, when suddenly the satnav decided to have a midlife crisis and directed us straight into a narrow lane that dead-ended at a sheep farm. Cue a frantic three-point turn with a flock of woolly spectators bleating encouragement. Laughing our heads off, we finally rolled into town just as the sun dipped towards the sea, hearts racing with that proper holiday buzz.

Pulling up to our duplex apartment on the second floor, I was chuffed to bits – it had this cracking private entrance off the communal landing, a quick staircase up to a space bathed in rose pink and neutral tones that just screamed cosy. Sea views from the windows, plush grey sofas begging us to flop down after the drive, and a Smart TV ready for a binge. First impressions? Spot on. It felt like instant home, steps from the beach, perfect for kicking back with mates.

But the real magic of Barmouth kicked in the next morning when we wandered down to the promenade. There was Dai, the chip shop bloke with a beard like a bird’s nest and stories for days. “You lot from up country, eh?” he grinned, wrapping our haddock supper in paper thicker than my nan’s Christmas pudding. Turned out he’d fished these waters since before flip phones were a thing, and over his counter, he regaled us with tales of the time a dolphin pod photobombed a wedding proposal right off the harbour wall. “Nearly caused a pile-up on the beach!” he chuckled, eyes twinkling. We ended up staying an hour, swapping laughs and his top tip for spotting seals at low tide.

Then there was Mrs. Evans from the little newsagent on High Street – a wiry septuagenarian with a Welsh lilt sharp as a tack. She clocked our accents straight away and launched into how Barmouth’s dragon-shaped rock pools at low tide are “better than any playground in Cardiff”. “Go on, take the kids – but mind the crabs, they’ve got attitudes!” she warned with a wink. Her chatter about the annual fair on the sands, with its wonky helter-skelter and coconut shies run by her nephew, had us hooked. We nipped out that afternoon, and sure enough, her directions were gold.

Further along the beach, we bumped into young Tom, a local surfer with sun-bleached hair and a board under his arm, teaching his mate to paddle out past the breakwaters. “Water’s like soup today – perfect for newbies!” he yelled over the waves. He pulled us into a chat about the best sunset spots by the viaduct, sharing how his gran still makes bara brith that could win Bake Off. These encounters turned our stay into something special – not just sandcastles and strolls along the estuary, but proper connections that made the place hum.

Reflecting on it now, sat on those sofas with the sea twinkling outside, I realised holidays aren’t about fancy spots, but the quirky folk who make you feel like you’ve stumbled into a mate’s backyard. Barmouth’s characters – with their tall tales and warm welcomes – left me grinning ear to ear, already plotting a return. What a belter of a break.