I’ll never forget the drive up to Conway – well, Colwyn Bay really, just a stone’s throw along the coast. We’d set off from Manchester full of beans, dreaming of fresh sea air and lazy days, but about halfway there, disaster struck: a massive caravan crawl on the A55. Proper gridlock, it was, with me tapping the wheel like a drum while my other half dozed off. We arrived a good hour later than planned, but honestly, as we pulled up to the seafront, all that stress melted away. There it was, this wonderful apartment in the Ocean View block, right on the promenade with the Irish Sea stretching out like a promise of peace. Heart racing a bit from the delay, I fumbled the keys, but stepping inside? Blimey, first impressions were spot on – fourth floor via the lift (bless that back door for anyone not keen on stairs), and bam, open-plan lounge screaming luxury, all plush and inviting with those exceptional sea views begging you to flop on the sofa with a cuppa.

It was just the two of us, perfect for couples craving a break from the daily grind, and we wasted no time settling in. First mission: food. The fridge was bare as Old Mother Hubbard’s, so we nipped out to the Rhos on Sea prom, barely five minutes’ wander. There’s this brilliant little market on a Saturday morning – think stalls heaving with local cheeses, plump strawberries from the Vale of Clwyd, and fresh mackerel straight off the boats. I grabbed some crab claws and crusty bread, feeling dead smug like a proper local. Back at the flat, I fancied myself as a chef – attempted a seafood salad with a splash of lemon and whatever herbs we’d rustled up. Disaster? Not quite, but let’s say it was more enthusiasm than expertise; the crab was divine, though my dressing was a tad vinegary. We laughed it off, gazing at the waves while munching, proper home-away-from-home vibes.

Evenings were for pubs, and Conway’s got a gem or two within easy reach. The Pen-y-Bryn down in the village – a proper old-school boozer with beams I won’t bore you about – does the best fish and chips I’ve had in ages. Crispy batter, chunky chips, mushy peas on the side, washed down with a pint of Conway Blonde. We went twice, once for that, and another for their Sunday roast: melt-in-the-mouth beef, Yorkshire puds the size of saucers, and gravy that could revive the dead. Feeling a bit reflective one night after a few bevvies, I admitted to myself I’d been run ragged at work lately; this trip was just what the doctor ordered, reminding me simple joys like a decent meal and sea views beat spreadsheets any day.

No holiday’s complete without a chippy tea, so we hit The Quay Fish Bar near the pier – cod so fresh it practically flapped, with scraps for that authentic crunch. Tried cooking again mid-week: local sausages from the market, pan-fried with onions and mash from spuds we’d bought. Turned out grand, actually, served on the balcony as the sun dipped. Honestly, staying here turned us into proper food explorers – markets by day, pubs by night, with the apartment as our cosy base. If you’re after a feed-focused getaway without straying far, this stretch of Conway’s hard to beat. We left fuller, happier, and already plotting a return.