I’ll never forget the drive to Barmouth – or rather, the detour that nearly did me in. We’d piled into the car from Shrewsbury, kids buzzing in the back, dog whining for his treats, and me navigating with a dodgy phone signal. Halfway there, I took a “shortcut” through some winding lanes near Llanbedr, only for the sat-nav to conk out just as we hit a flock of sheep blocking the road. There we were, honking gently while a shepherd in wellies ambled over, pipe in mouth, eyeing us like we’d landed from Mars. “Lost, are ya?” he grinned, directing us with a nod and a yarn about his prize ram that once escaped to Porthmadog. Twenty minutes later, we were back on track, laughing at my rubbish sense of direction. Self-reflection moment: maybe next time, I’ll let the husband drive.

Pulling up to our holiday spot near Harlech, the anticipation was electric – those sea views over the golf course towards the Llyn Peninsula had me grinning before we’d even parked. First impressions? Spot on. It’s a proper charming place, period feel inside with all the mod cons, perfect for us lot including the dog. Stepped through the door into heaps of space, a cosy snug for feet-up telly by the woodburner, and an open-plan living area flowing into a cracking kitchen with a massive range cooker. The enclosed terrace? Pure bliss for hot-tubbing with that vista.

But the real magic was the characters we met – Barmouth’s full of ’em, proper quirky locals who made the week. First up was Dai at the beachfront chippy in Barmouth, no more than a couple of miles down the coast. Bald as a coot with a tattooed neck and stories for days, he fried our haddock supper while regaling us about the time a dolphin followed his fishing boat right into the harbour. “Cheeky beggar, thought it was after me bait!” he cackled, tossing extra mushy peas our way gratis. The kids were hooked, and we ended up chatting longer than it took to eat.

Then there was Mrs Evans, the postmistress in Harlech village, a tiny whirlwind of a woman who’d run the shop since the war. Popped in for postcards, and she insisted on brewing tea, launching into tales of evacuees billeted there during the Blitz. “One lad swore he saw a U-boat from the dunes!” Her gossip about the golf club’s resident ghost – a chap who still putts at midnight – had us in stitches. Gentle soul, really, with a soft spot for strays; she slipped the dog a biscuit when she thought I wasn’t looking.

Out on the beach walks, we bumped into Madoc, the retired lifeboatman with a beard like a bird’s nest. He was fly-fishing off the rocks, sharing whispers about secret coves only locals know. “Tide’s tricky here, mind – caught me trousers once!” Turned out he’d coxed the boat during the big storm of ’94, saving a family from their yacht. Over fish pie at the local pub, he quizzed the husband on his golf handicap, promising a tip from the course pro who “owes me a favour.”

Even the dog got in on it, befriending old Tom at the pet-friendly café by the bridge, who claimed his terrier once chased seals halfway to Fairbourne. These chats, pint in hand or over cream teas, wove the holiday together – no itinerary needed. Left feeling like we’d made mates for life, pondering how a simple getaway unearthed such gems. Barmouth, you’ve won us over.