I’ll never forget the drive up to Llanrwst – sat nav had me convinced we’d make it in under two hours from Cheshire, but no, a cheeky diversion round some roadworks on the A55 turned it into a proper saga. We ended up pulling into a layby for emergency pork scratchings and a moan about why North Wales roads love a good twist. Still, as we finally trundled into the market town, the anticipation bubbled up – Conway Valley’s got that proper Welsh charm, and I was dreaming of cosy pubs and cracking local grub.

Spotting the place was a doddle, just a short hop from the train station if you’re not lugging luggage like we were. It’s this welcoming first-floor apartment, all open-plan and spot-on for a couple of mates like us, tucked away peacefully but dead central for Llanrwst’s buzz. First impressions? Spot on. We dumped the bags and cracked open the kettle – proper home from home vibe, with a Smart TV begging for a footie catch-up later and a kitchen kitted out like a telly chef’s dream: oven, hob, microwave, toaster, the lot. Dining table screamed “linger here with a brew and plan tomorrow’s feast.”

Right, food was the star of this trip – we were all about that self-catering life mixed with pub crawls. First night, I fancied playing masterchef. Nipped to the local market on Station Road – Llanrwst’s Friday one is a gem, stalls heaving with fresh veg, Welsh cheeses that could make you weep, and plump leeks begging for a stew. Grabbed some lamb chops from a proper butcher, earthy spuds, and a slab of caerphilly. Back at the flat, I attempted a Welsh cawl – onions sizzling, lamb bubbling away. Turned out half decent, if a tad salty after I got carried away with the stock. We scoffed it at that table, laughing at my “chef’s kiss” pose gone wrong when I nearly scalded my thumb.

Next day, we hit the pubs for a change. The Gwydir Arms is a five-minute wander – old-school boozer with beams (sorry, no beams talk) and the best fish and chips I’ve had in ages. Crispy batter, proper mushy peas, and a pint of Conway Brewery’s Welsh Pride that slid down a treat. Felt like locals already, chatting to the barman about the valley’s best spots. Evening? More market spoils – bara brith from a baker, smoked mackerel, and cream for pud. My cooking attempt number two: a half-arsed mackerel pate that was more mash than smooth, but slathered on toast with a cheeky Welsh rarebit (grilled cheese on steroids, courtesy of the oven), it was lush. Sat there reflecting on how I’m rubbish at portion control – always cook for four, eat for two, leftovers for the dog we don’t have.

Sunday lunch was pub perfection at the King’s Head, just down the road – roast beef with Yorkshire puds the size of hubcaps, gravy like nectar. Washed down with local ciders. Back for tea, I nailed a simple Welsh cake fry-up using hob skills and market fruit. Honestly, this stay had me pondering my city habits – too many takeaways, not enough faffing in a kitchen with mates. Left fuller, happier, and plotting a return for that market’s summer specials. If you’re after a base for Conway eats without the fuss, this is your spot.