I’ll never forget the drive to Conway – what should’ve been a straightforward jaunt from the motorway turned into a proper comedy of errors. Satnav decided to play silly buggers halfway through, directing us down a narrow lane that pinched tighter than my skinny jeans after Christmas dinner. We ended up in a dead-end farmyard, sheep staring at us like we’d gatecrashed their tea party, and me reversing into a hedge while swearing under my breath (well, quietly, for the kids’ sake). By the time we extricated ourselves, tempers were frayed, and the other half was threatening to book us into a Travelodge next time. But as we finally rolled into Conway’s ancient town walls, that anticipation bubbled up – you know, that fizzy excitement of arriving somewhere proper special?

Spotting the castle looming like a giant from a fairy tale, I felt the stress melt away. We parked up (after circling the one-way system twice – classic me), grabbed our bags, and climbed the stairs to this cracking second-floor apartment tucked inside an 18th-century building right within the castle walls. First impressions? Blimey, it was love at first sight. Stepping inside felt like slipping into a warm hug – all high ceilings, a cosy woodburner in the open-plan living area, and that window seat begging you to plonk down with a cuppa and gawp at the castle peeking through the scenery. The contemporary kitchen with its breakfast bar for four was spot on for us lot, even if I did immediately spill orange juice everywhere unpacking the groceries.

We’d barely dropped our bags before the kids were whooping and racing to the window seat, claiming it as their throne. I had a proper moment there, leaning against the breakfast bar, watching them point out every turret. Made me reflect on how we’re always rushing about back home – work, school runs, the lot – and here we were, in this modern little haven, just soaking it in. It’s daft, but it hit me: holidays like this are what recharge the batteries, aren’t they? No schedules, just us.

That evening, after a quick whip-up of beans on toast at the breakfast bar (gourmet, obviously), we wandered out for first dibs on Conway’s magic. Strolled the battlements at twilight – free entry, and the views over the estuary had us gobsmacked. The quay’s just a hop away, with fishing boats bobbing and seagulls squawking for chips. Popped into a cosy tearoom for Welsh cakes the next morning – proper flapjacks, warm and crumbly – then tackled the tiniest house in Britain, that quirky red-and-white cottage squeezed between the quay and the castle walls. The kids loved the daft narrowness of it; I loved not having to queue too long.

Afternoons meant pottering along the Morfa Beach path, picking up shells and dodging the waves, or a gentle yomp up to the castle for a nose around those towers (Henry VIII slept here, apparently – jealous). Evenings back at the apartment were bliss: fire crackling, feet up on the window seat, maybe a board game at the breakfast bar with a cheeky glass of wine. One night, I burnt the toast so badly the smoke alarm had a right old sing-song, and we ended up laughing till our sides hurt, ordering fish and chips from the local instead.

Conway’s got that unspoilt charm – no crowds, just history and sea air. That messy arrival? Best mishap ever; it made the first impressions hit even harder. If you’re after a family bolt-hole or a couples’ retreat, this spot’s a gem. We left buzzing, already plotting a return.