I’ll never forget the drive up to Conway – or rather, the comedy of errors that got me there. We’d set off from Manchester full of beans, me navigating on my phone while my other half drove, both buzzing about our seaside getaway. But halfway through Rhyl, the sat-nav decided to have a midlife crisis and rerouted us down a tiny lane that turned out to be a dead end at some farmer’s gate. Cue much faffing about with reversing past a flock of indignant sheep, and a good half-hour delay. Still, by the time we rolled into Craig y Don in Llandudno, the sun was dipping low over the bay, and my heart did a little flip at the sight of the seafront twinkling ahead. Couldn’t wait to dump the bags and crack open a bottle.

The place was a penthouse-style apartment, dead posh but cosy, right in the heart of it all. Accessed via a lift and stairs with a key fob swipe – easy peasy – and bags of free parking right outside. Stepped inside to this cracking contemporary kitchen, all shiny and stocked with everything you’d need for a fry-up or a posh pasta. Local shops just a stroll away for milk and biscuits. First impressions? Spot on. Felt like our little coastal pad instantly.

But the real magic – and I mean the proper highlight – was the characters we bumped into. Hardly through the door when we nipped out for essentials, and there’s this chap outside the corner shop, must’ve been pushing 80, with a flat cap and a fag dangling, regaling the queue about the time he outran a seagull with a pasty in 1973. “They’re clever buggers, mind,” he winked at me, “but I’ve got the legs on ‘em still!” We got chatting – turns out he’s a lifelong Llandudno lad called Dai, knows every nook from the pier to the promenade. Gave us the lowdown on the best chippy (Gogarth Avenue, apparently unbeatable) and warned us off the dodgy ice cream van that parks near the tram station. Proper yarn-spinner, Dai was; had us in stitches before we’d even paid for our bread.

Next day, strolling along the West Shore – that wide, peaceful beach just minutes away – we met Madge, walking her terrier, Percy. She’s the sort who looks like she stepped out of a postcard: scarf knotted just so, thermos in hand. “You lot from away, eh?” she clocked our accents straight off. Over a brew on a bench (she insisted we share her flask), she spun tales of the old days when the donkeys used to roam free and the pier shows had real live lions. Percy kept nipping at our laces, but Madge just chuckled: “He’s testing if you’re local – fails everyone from England!” Gentle soul, really; admitted she misses her late husband but loves chatting to holiday folk. Made me pause for a sec, thinking how these places pull you in not just for the views, but the warmth.

Evenings were for people-watching on the prom, where we fell into step with Tommo, a retired fisherman nursing a pint outside the cottage pub. Bushy beard, stories taller than the Great Orme – like the ghost crab that haunts the rock pools (rubbish, but hilarious). He reckoned the best chips were still from that van by the pier, contra Dai, sparking a mock debate that lasted till closing.

Quirky bunch, these locals – salt-of-the-earth types who turn a simple break into something special. Left me reflecting on how a bit of chit-chat beats any fancy spa day. If you’re after proper Welsh welcome, this is the spot. Can’t wait to go back and catch up with the gang.