I’ll never forget the drive to Conway – or rather, the near-disaster on the A55. We’d left Manchester full of beans, sandwiches packed and the sat-nav chirping away, when a cheeky sheep decided to play chicken right in the middle of the road. I swerved like a pro (or so I told myself), heart thumping, but we made it unscathed, laughing it off as classic North Wales drama. By the time we trundled into Colwyn Bay, anticipation was buzzing – visions of coastal walks and proper sea air filling my head.

Pulling into the driveway of this tucked-away first-floor apartment on the outskirts, just along the main road towards Llandudno and Conway, I was chuffed to bits. Up the stairs we went, and stepping inside felt like an instant hug: plush settee begging for a collapse, telly ready for Strictly reruns, and a kitchen kitted out with everything from toaster to hob for knocking up a fry-up. First impressions? Spot on – cosy, clean, and screaming ‘relax here’.

But the real magic kicked off with the locals, those quirky characters who turned our stay into a proper yarn. First up was Dai, the chap at the Rhos-on-Sea beach café, no more than a ten-minute stroll away. Bald as a coot with a beard like a wizard’s, he served us fish and chips wrapped in yesterday’s news, regaling us with tales of smuggling ghosts from the old pier. “Back in the day, mind, we’d hide contraband in the ice cream freezers,” he winked, eyes twinkling. I nearly choked on my mushy peas laughing – was he pulling my leg? Didn’t matter; his patter had us hooked, planning a return for his “secret sauce” (which he swore was just vinegar and mischief).

Then there was Mrs Evans from the mini-mart up the road, a tiny firecracker in wellies who’d chat your ear off about her prize-winning leeks at the Conway show. We popped in for milk and ended up with a full history of the castle’s “haunted” battlements – apparently, the ghost of a medieval baker still haunts the bakery down the lane, rising dough at midnight. “Don’t you go wandering at night, love,” she warned with a cackle, pressing extra Hobnobs on us gratis. Her warmth melted any holiday stress; I caught myself reflecting how we city folk miss these gems – proper human connection, no screens required.

Even on our jaunt to the promenade, we bumped into Madge, the pensioner power-walking with her terrier, Percy. She clocked our accents and launched into a monologue about Percy’s “celebrity” status after chasing gulls on the beach. “He’s the king of Colwyn Bay, he is!” We ended up joining her for a brew at the prom café, swapping stories of Welsh weather woes. Her gentle ribbing about my “soft southern” driving had me in stitches – that sheep incident? “You’re lucky it wasn’t a goat; they’ve got horns and grudges!”

Staying put in that apartment, with its easy access to the coastline’s beaches and nooks, felt perfect for these encounters. No grand plans needed – just pottering to the sands, chatting with folk who make the place sing. It was a reminder to slow down, listen more. We left with full bellies, fuller hearts, and a promise to Dai for next time. Conway’s characters? Pure gold.