I’ll never forget the drive over to Llandudno from the mainland – we took the bridge across the Menai Strait, hearts racing with that proper holiday buzz, only for me to miss the turning for Beaumaris high street and end up circling like a couple of lost seagulls. A quick u-turn and a sheepish laugh later, we pulled up right on the seafront, and blimey, the first glimpse of our spot was pure magic. This cracking duplex apartment tucked above the Red Boat Ice Cream Parlour, with its welcoming vibe just steps from the waves lapping at Beaumaris pier. We couldn’t wait to dump the bags and dive into some proper foodie fun.

First things first, that kitchen on the ground floor was a dream – spacious, gleaming, and stocked with everything you’d need to channel your inner chef. I’d packed grand plans for a Welsh lamb stew, inspired by all the local chatter about Anglesey’s finest produce. Off we trundled to the Saturday market just down the road, a riot of stalls heaving with fresh crab from the bay, artisan cheeses that smelled like heaven, and plump tomatoes begging to be roasted. I haggled a bit for some cockles – proper Menai Strait ones – and a wedge of caerphilly that could make you weep. Back at the flat, with the sea breeze drifting in, I set to work. Let’s just say my stew was more enthusiastic than elegant; the lamb was spot on, but I overseasoned it enough to wake the neighbours. Still, sat round the dining table recounting our pier-spotting antics, it tasted like victory. The kids demolished it, and that was me sorted for the week.

Evenings called for pub crawls along the front. The Olde Bull’s Head, a stone’s throw away, became our haunt – pint of local bitter in hand, digging into fish and chips so crispy they shattered like glass. The batter was textbook, golden and fluffy inside, with mushy peas that hit the spot. One night, we tried the platters there: prawns, smoked mackerel, and oysters straight from the strait, washed down with a cheeky white from the island vineyards. I overdid it on the oysters, mind – six down, and I was wobbling like a jelly on the walk back, giggling about how I’m meant to be the sensible one.

Next day, I fancied redemption in the kitchen. Markets again – this time scoring rhubarb from a nearby grower and some bara brith ingredients. Whipped up a crumble that actually worked, served in the airy sitting room by the woodburner (we didn’t light it, too summery). Reflection time over tea: holidays like this remind me I’m no Gordon Ramsay, but there’s joy in the faffing, the spills, the shared plates that turn strangers into mates. We hit the ice cream parlour below for pud – knickerbocker glory piled high with local soft-serve, fruit from the market, and enough sauce to drown a scone. Pure indulgence.

Wandered to the pier cafe for elevenses most mornings – crab sandwiches on doorstep bread, with views of yachts bobbing. Evenings? Back to pubs like the George and Dragon for lamb cawl, hearty and warming, or their Sunday roasts that left us stuffed and smiling. One mishap: tried cooking mussels from the fishmonger, but they were a bit sandy – lesson learned, stick to the pros next time.

All in, this stay was a feast for the soul as much as the belly. Beaumaris fed us proper, from market hauls to pub grub, and that flat was the perfect base for it all. Can’t wait to go back – next time, I’ll nail the stew.