I’ll never forget the drive to Conway – well, Llandudno really, just a stone’s throw along the coast. We’d piled into the car from Manchester, kids buzzing in the back with crisps and iPads, me navigating via a dodgy sat-nav that decided to send us on a scenic detour through some narrow lanes near Penmaenmawr. Cue a classic mishap: a rogue sheep blocking the road, staring us down like it owned the place. I’m honking gently, the farmer ambles over in wellies, grinning ear to ear. “Alright there, tourists? She’s just havin’ a lie-down,” he chuckles, shooing her off with a shepherd’s crook. Ten minutes later, we’re on our way, laughing about it, and my heart’s already lifting with that holiday anticipation – sea air, no emails, proper family time.

Pulling up to our ground-floor apartment, smack in the middle of Llandudno’s buzz with the coastline right there, it hit me straight away: great first impressions. Light and fresh kitchen-diner begging for a brew, social table for us lot to gather round, spotless bathroom with those cheeky seaside touches, and two cracking bedrooms – a double for me and the missus, triple bunks for the kids who whooped like they’d won the lottery. Perfect setup for Netflix nights when we fancied a chill.

But the real magic? The characters we met. First off, Mrs Evans from the bakery round the corner on Mostyn Street. Proper Llandudno legend, she is – silver hair in a bun, apron dusted with flour, regaling us with tales of the pier’s heyday while handing over welshcakes still warm. “Mind the gulls, love,” she winked, “they’re naughtier than my lot were at your age.” We devoured them on the beach, watching the bay glitter, and I couldn’t help a quiet reflection: when did I last just chat to a stranger without glancing at my phone? Felt good, proper grounding.

Then there was Dai the fisherman down by the North Shore, rods out at dawn when we stumbled for a walk. Weather-beaten face, pipe in mouth, he yarned about the orcas that occasionally pop in from Ireland – “Saw one last summer, big as this promenade!” The kids hung on every word, and he even let them cast a line, promising to save us some mackerel for tea. Turned out he lived two doors down; next morning, he knocked with a fresh catch, chatting about his days dodging storms off the Great Orme.

Even at the Little Orme, we bumped into quirky Tom, a retired tram driver walking his terrier. “Trams’ll take you up top, but mind the goats – they’ve got right of way!” he cackled. We did the ride, goats be damned, and it sparked the best family giggles. Back at the flat, huddled with Netflix, those chats lingered – the warmth of locals who make a place feel like home.

Holidays like this remind you: it’s not just the views, it’s the people. Conway coast’s got ‘em in spades. Can’t wait to go back.