I’ll never forget the drive to Barmouth – we’d packed the car to the gills with wellies, waterproofs and enough crisps to last a siege, but about halfway there, just past Dolgellau, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us down a narrow lane that was more puddle than path. Cue a tense five minutes reversing with hedges scraping the mirrors, me muttering under my breath while the kids giggled in the back. Still, we arrived in one piece, buzzing with that holiday anticipation, and as we pulled up to this grand Victorian house just minutes from Barmouth’s promenade, my jaw dropped. High ceilings, those original bay windows framing the sea – it was love at first sight, like stepping into a posh seaside hug.

First morning, we cracked open the light, airy sitting room with its massive windows sucking in those panoramic views over Cardigan Bay. Perfect spot for brekkie and plotting the day’s adventures, all while the Smart TV hummed in the background. The place screamed family reunion vibes: seven bedrooms, five bathrooms (bliss, no morning queues), a cracker of a kitchen for knocking up grub with local treats, and a dining room begging for epic feasts. But it was the enclosed courtyard that sealed it – stylish patio set, and that hot tub? Pure genius for when the Welsh weather throws its curveballs.

Day one was a belter: blue skies, so we legged it straight to Barmouth’s Blue Flag beach for a brisk walk along the sands, toes in the surf, building lopsided castles before pushing on up the headland path for cliff-top views that had us whooping. The Mawddach Estuary trail called next – a gentle three-miler along the shore, spotting herons and seals bobbing about, with the mountains of Snowdonia teasing in the distance. We felt invincible, me striding ahead like some intrepid explorer, pretending I wasn’t secretly chuffed at the fresh air blasting away the city cobwebs.

But oh, the British weather – it’s got a wicked sense of humour, doesn’t it? Next day, lashing rain turned our planned hike to Fairbourne beach into a comedy of errors. We donned every layer, braved the promenade anyway, puddles splashing up to our knees, laughing as the wind whipped our hoods inside out. “This is character-building!” I yelled over the gale, while secretly wondering if the hot tub was calling my name. By afternoon, it eased to a misty drizzle, so we rerouted to the estuary paths closer to home, meandering through reed beds where the wildlife didn’t care a jot about the wet. Ended up back at the house for games in the upstairs snug – pool, cards, and stories till late, cosy as you like with the rain pattering outside.

A couple of days later, sun returned for a cracker of a clifftop ramble above Barmouth, wildflowers nodding in the breeze, sea sparkling below. But come evening, clouds rolled in again, forcing an indoor pivot to the courtyard under brollies, hot tub bubbling defiantly. Those weather flips had me reflecting mid-hike one drizzly afternoon: holidays like this remind you life’s not about perfect plans, but rolling with it – rain-lashed laughs one minute, sun-kissed highs the next. Barmouth’s walks delivered both in spades, and this house was the perfect basecamp. We left knackered, grinning, and already plotting a return. What a tonic.