I’ll never forget the drive up to Conway – well, Llandudno really, that gem of a seaside spot in North Wales. We’d set off from Manchester full of beans, dreaming of fish and chips by the prom, but halfway there, disaster struck: a rogue seagull dive-bombed our windscreen with what looked like half a pasty. Cue hysterical laughter and a frantic stop at a services for wet wipes. By the time we rolled into town, hearts racing with that proper holiday buzz, we were starving and ready to dive into whatever this place had in store.

Pulling up roadside, we unloaded the boot and climbed the stairs to this cracking first-floor apartment right in the thick of it all. First impressions? Spot on. It’s got that cosy, tasteful vibe – nothing flash, just welcoming, with everything you need. The kitchen hit us first: fully kitted out with pots, pans, herbs, and even a decent oven. We dumped our bags and got cracking on supper straight away, windows open to the buzz of the high street below.

That first night, we rustled up a romantic pasta number – nothing fancy, just garlic, cherry tomatoes from the local market we’d spotted on the way in, and a splash of Welsh cheddar we’d nabbed from a deli round the corner. Sat at the window-side table, twirling forksful while watching the world go by, it felt dead luxurious. The electric log-effect fire was flickering away, and we followed it with a cheesy rom-com on the Smart TV, feet up on the sofa. Pure bliss after that bird poo fiasco.

Next morning, we wandered out to the Llandudno markets – proper bustling ones on the high street, heaving with stalls of fresh crab from Conway Bay, local sausages, and those massive Welsh cakes that smell like heaven. I grabbed some smoked mackerel and leeks, thinking I’d channel my inner chef. Back at the flat, my attempt at cawl turned into a hilarious watery soup – too much stock, not enough patience. Laughing our heads off, we salvaged it with crusty bread from the bakery opposite and a bottle of red from the offy. Proper home-cooked heroics, even if I say so myself.

Evenings were pub central. The Cottage Loaf, just a stagger away, does the best pies – steak and ale that melts in your mouth, with a pint of local Conway ale to match. We’d prop up the bar, chatting with locals about the fishing boats, then stumble back for late-night cheese toasties in the kitchen. One night, we splashed out at a beachfront chippy – battered cod the size of my forearm, mushy peas on the side, eaten on the sand before retreating to the apartment’s warmth.

Reflecting on it now, that week was a gentle nudge: I’m no MasterChef, but there’s something magic about faffing in a holiday kitchen with your other half, turning market finds into memories. No posh restaurants needed – just good grub, great company, and that salty sea air. If you’re after a foodie escape without the faff, this corner of Conway’s got it in spades. We’re already plotting a return for more mishaps and munchies.