I’ll never forget the drive up to Conway – sat nav had me convinced we’d make it in under three hours from Manchester, but no, some cheeky roadworks near Colwyn Bay turned it into a right faff. We ended up crawling along behind a tractor towing what looked like half a haystack, and I swear the driver was taking the scenic route on purpose. By the time we spotted the ancient town walls looming ahead, my other half was humming the theme from The Great Escape, and I was promising pints all round if we survived the final crawl through the narrow archway.

Pulling into the spot right by this fabulous first-floor apartment was pure relief – centrally plonked with cracking views of Conway Castle from the off. It’s one of those places that hits you with great first impressions: you climb these external steps with vistas popping up everywhere, and step into a proper homely living/dining room. Plush sofas begging you to flop, a smart TV on the wall, and a breakfast bar that screamed “sort your brekkie here and crack on with the day”. Perfect setup for us four – me, my mate Dave, his missus, and my partner – all buzzing to explore this walled gem in North Wales.

What made the whole trip, though, weren’t the sights (mind, the castle’s a belter), but the quirky locals we bumped into. First up was Dai the fishmonger down by the quayside, no more than a five-minute wander from the door. Bald as a coot with a beard down to his knees, he’s flogging fresh crab straight off the boats. “Lad,” he says, eyeing our city shoes, “you lot look like you’ve never cracked a claw in your life. Here, watch this.” He proceeds to demolish one with a flick of his knife, spinning yarns about the time a seal nicked his best catch. We bought enough for tea, laughing till our sides hurt – proper character, that one.

Then there was Mrs Evans at the little bakery on High Street, round the corner from the pubs. Tiny as a sparrow but with a voice like a foghorn, she’s been kneading dough since the war, or so she claims. “Bach,” she calls me (I’m six-foot-two, mind), handing over Welsh cakes still warm. We got chatting about the castle ghosts – apparently, one haunts the ramparts, moaning about lost battles. “Seen it meself,” she winks, “but don’t tell the tourists, eh?” Dave nearly choked on his coffee, convinced she was winding us up, but her eyes twinkled like she knew secrets we didn’t.

Evenings were pub time at The Bridge, just a stagger away by the river. Landlord Tom’s a hoot – ex-rugby prop forward, built like a shed, regaling us with tales of Conway’s wildest floods. “One year, the river rose so high, me missus rowed to the bar!” We swapped stories over local ales, him ribbing us southern softies for not knowing our bara brith from our elbow.

Looking back, it was those chats that stuck. Made me reflect on how we rush about, missing the real juice of a place – the people with their daft humour and warmth. This spot was spot-on for it: close to everything, dead convenient, and left us proper recharged. If you’re after a Welsh getaway that feels like nattering with mates, you can’t go wrong here. Can’t wait to go back and grill Dai for more seal stories.