We’d barely made it off the A55 when the satnav decided to send us down a lane that was basically a hedge with ideas above its station. By the time we found Ysgubor Barn the back bumper looked as though it had done battle with a bramble patch, and I’d managed to drop the last Welsh cake I’d bought at the services straight into the footwell. Not the grand entrance I’d pictured.

Still, the first sight of the little stone cottage tucked just behind the dunes near Abergele lifted the mood. The sea air hit us the moment we opened the car doors, and the kitchen greeted us with a proper Welsh dresser and a hob that looked ready for action. We’d planned to cook that first night, so we nipped into the village shop for bacon, leeks and a loaf still warm from the oven. Ten minutes later the kitchen smelled of sizzling bacon and I was already feeling less travel-weary.

Next morning we wandered into Conwy proper, stomachs growling. The little Tuesday market was in full swing, and we came away with a wedge of Caerphilly, some laverbread and a punnet of early strawberries. We ate the cheese straight off the paper on a bench by the quay, watching fishing boats bob about, before heading back to the barn to attempt Welsh cakes on the Rayburn. They came out slightly lopsided but tasted far better than the one I’d sacrificed to the car mat.

By evening we were ready for proper pub grub. The Ship in nearby Llanddulas had a roaring fire and a blackboard promising the catch of the day. My partner went for battered hake and chips; I tried the lamb cawl, thick with root veg and served with a doorstep of bread. We stayed for a second pint of the local ale, swapping stories with a couple who’d also just arrived from Manchester. Walking back along the dark lane, the only sounds were the waves and our slightly too-loud laughter.

The next day we decided to cook again, this time attempting a seafood linguine with mussels bought from the stall at the harbour. Everything went smoothly until I realised I’d forgotten to buy garlic; a neighbourly knock later we had a bulb in hand and a promise to return the favour with cake. The meal turned out surprisingly restaurant-worthy, eaten at the little table with the doors open to the evening breeze.

By the final morning we’d formed a gentle routine: market for supplies, pub for lunch, barn for supper experiments. Standing at the sink washing up the last of the leek and potato soup, I caught myself thinking how rare it is to slow down enough to notice the small rituals of shopping, chopping and sharing. The satnav mishap already felt like part of the story, a reminder that even the most ordinary beach holiday can start with a bramble-scratched bumper and still turn into something quietly lovely.