I’ll never forget the drive to Llandudno that weekend – we’d packed the car with enough crisps and tea bags to last a siege, but halfway there, just past Colwyn Bay, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us on a detour through some narrow lanes that had me gripping the wheel like it was a lifeline. “Trust the machine,” I muttered to my other half, as we bounced over a pothole that nearly launched the dog into the boot. But oh, what a relief when Conway’s mighty castle walls came into view, all dramatic against the sea sky. My heart lifted; this was going to be proper.

Pulling up to our second-floor apartment in an 18th-century building tucked right within those castle walls – part of the World Heritage site on the North Wales coast – I felt that proper holiday buzz. It’s the sort of place that screams “feel at home,” with its open-plan living area, a cosy woodburner, high ceilings, and this brilliant window seat where you can perch and spy the castle turrets. The modern kitchen’s got a breakfast bar for four, perfect for lazy mornings with coffee and toast. First impressions? Spot on – modern haven after a day’s exploring, ideal for us lot, whether families, couples, or just nosy sightseers like me.

No sooner had we unpacked than we wandered out for a pint at a nearby pub, the kind with low beams and sticky tables that ooze local charm. That’s where we met Dai, the barman with a beard like a wizard’s and stories longer than the Orme’s cliffs. “You staying in the old castle spot, eh?” he grinned, pulling a pint of local Conway ale. “Best view in town, but mind the ghosts – they’ve been rattling chains since the 13th century!” We laughed, and he regaled us with tales of eccentric locals, like Mad Maggie from down the lane who swears her cat predicts the tide. Proper character, Dai was – by the end of the chat, he’d slipped us a map scribbled with his top fish-and-chip spots in Llandudno, just a quick hop along the coast road.

Next day, strolling Conway’s quay, we bumped into Mrs Evans, a tiny pensioner with a shopping trolley that looked like it’d seen the war. She was feeding the seagulls – “Cheeky beggars, but they’ve got better manners than my grandson!” – and insisted we try her recipe for Welsh cakes, pressing a warm one into my hand. “None of that Llandudno tourist tat,” she winked. “Real ones, mind, with butter from the farm up the hill.” Her stories had us in stitches: the time the tide trapped the mayor’s car, or how the castle ravens once pinched a vicar’s hat. Pure gold.

Even at the beach in Llandudno, peering at the pier from our window seat later, we chatted with Tommy, the ice cream seller with a voice like gravel. “Yanks come for the donkeys,” he chuckled, “but you locals know it’s the rock pools for crab-hunting.” He shared yarns about smuggling ghosts from the old days, eyes twinkling. These quirky souls made the trip – not the views (though they’re cracking), but the chats that warmed you more than the woodburner.

Reflecting now, sat here with a cuppa, I realise I’d been rushing life back home. Holidays like this, with proper characters pulling you into their world, remind you to slow down and listen. Can’t wait to go back – Dai’s expecting us.