I’ll never forget the drive up to Llandudno – sat nav insisting we take some back road through the hills, only for us to end up behind a sheep farmer’s lorry doing 20mph with a flock spilling out the back. Proper Welsh chaos, that was, horns beeping and me laughing so hard I nearly missed the turning for the holiday flats. But as we finally rolled into town, hearts lifted by that first glimpse of the seafront, all golden sands and Victorian grandeur stretching out under the mountains. Couldn’t wait to dump the bags and breathe it all in.

Our place was one of those neat little self-catering apartments right in the thick of it, all cosy and lived-in with sea views from the lounge window. First impressions? Spot on. We cracked open a brew and watched the pier lights twinkling as the sun dipped. But it was the locals who turned the whole trip into something special – quirky bunch, every one of them, and it’s their yarns that still have me chuckling weeks later.

Take Dai from the chippy down by the North Shore beach. Bald as a coot, with a tattoo of a dragon on his forearm that he swore was inked by a pirate in Conway back in ’82. “Llandudno’s got two faces, see,” he winked, wrapping up my cod and chips with floury hands. “Happy one on the pier, moody one up the Orme when the goats get frisky.” Goats? Turns out the wild ones up there are notorious for nicking ice creams right off your hand. Dai reckoned he’d lost a whole bag of fudge to one last summer – “Cheeky sods, but they pay the rent for the tourists snapping selfies.”

Next day, we wandered the pier, longest in Wales and chock-full of arcade machines clanging away. That’s where we met Mavis, the fortune teller in the booth with a crystal ball and a fag dangling from her lip. “You’ve got a face for mischief, love,” she cackled at me, peering over her specs. Told me I’d find treasure on the beach – turned out to be a shiny 50p, but her real gem was the gossip. She’d clocked every celeb who’d snuck through Venue Cymru over the years, from telly stars to that one politician who got stuck on the ghost train. “Town’s small, mouths are big,” she grinned. We ended up staying an hour, her rattling on about the open-top bus tours where the drivers compete to spot the rarest gulls.

Up on the Great Orme, via the cable car for a laugh (legs like jelly after that sheep hold-up), we bumped into Tommo, the cable car bloke with a beard like a wizard’s. He’s been hauling folk up there for decades, knows every twitch of the goats and every hidden cove for seal spotting. “Don’t tell the tourists,” he whispered conspiratorially, “but the best view’s not at the top – it’s halfway down, pint in hand at the halfway house.” Proper character, pointing out wildlife boat trips chugging out for porpoises, and warning us off the dodgy fishing spots where the crabs fight back.

Even at the Mostyn Gallery, sipping tea in the café, there was Ethel, the volunteer with stories taller than the pier. She’d chat about the art shows and events, but really it was her tales of pier-end buskers and beach volleyball mishaps that had us in stitches. One evening, after a gentle stroll along West Shore – waves lapping, sun setting pink – I sat there reflecting on how these encounters make a place hum. Not the fancy bits, but the Daise and Mavises, turning a holiday flat stay into mates’ night out. Llandudno’s magic isn’t just the beaches or the Orme; it’s the locals who make you feel like you’ve always belonged. Can’t wait to go back – sheep or no sheep.