I’ll never forget the drive up to Rhos-on-Sea – sat nav had me convinced I was nearly there, then it chucked me down this tiny lane that dead-ended at a sheep field. Typical me, panicking with the kids in the back yelling about needing the loo, but we laughed it off and backtracked, arriving just as the sun dipped over the bay. Heart racing a bit from the detour, but oh, what a first impression. This first-floor apartment above an estate agent right in the thick of it all – stairs up from the front door to a roomy hallway perfect for dumping sandy shoes, and three cracking bedrooms upfront: a king-size treat for us, a twin for the lads, and a family one with a double and single. Spot on for our crew, high-spec and cosy, just yards from the seafront buzz.

No sooner had we unpacked than I nipped down to the row of pubs for a pint and some local intel. First character I clocked was Dai the barman at the little boozer next door – wiry bloke in his sixties with a beard like a Brillo pad and stories for Wales. “You here for the prom, then?” he grinned, nodding at the seafront path where pensioners were power-walking like it was the Olympics. Turned out he’d fished these waters since he was knee-high, and regaled me with tales of the time a seal pinched his catch right off the line. “Cheeky bugger waved at me!” Proper chuckle, and he slipped me a tip on the best chippy – not the flashy one by the arcade, but the hole-in-the-wall run by his mate Geraint.

Next day, strolling the promenade towards Colwyn Bay, we bumped into Mrs Evans, the world’s nosiest ice cream vendor. Ancient as the hills, with a voice like a foghorn, she clocked our accents straight off. “English, eh? Don’t worry, we don’t bite – much!” She insisted on 99s with extra flakes (“proper Welsh ones, mind”), then launched into how her late husband used to serenade the seagulls with his comb-and-paper kazoo. The kids were in stitches, and I couldn’t help reflecting – holidays like this remind you how easy it is to get wrapped up in your own bubble back home. Here, chatting with these salty locals pulls you right out of it.

Afternoon took us to the Welsh Mountain Zoo up the hill – met keeper Tom there, a lanky lad with owl tattoos who whispered conspiratorially about the penguins’ escape attempts. “They’re plotting world domination, those ones,” he winked, as one waddled by eyeing us suspiciously. Back at the apartment, we cooked up a storm in the open-plan kitchen, swapping more yarns over tea with a couple from the bakery downstairs – eccentric twins who claimed their sourdough was “fermented with sea air and fairy dust.”

Evenings melted into pub crawls, where landlady Mavis – queen of the karaoke machine – roped us into duetting “Delilah”. Her husband, silent type with a pint perma-glued to his hand, just nodded sagely: “She’s the boss.” Quirky lot, but warm as toast. Left feeling like old mates, pondering how a daft driving blunder led to the best character-filled break. Can’t wait to go back for more.