I’ll never forget the drive up to Llandudno – sat nav insisting we take the scenic route via the A55, only for us to hit a cheeky little traffic jam courtesy of a sheep farmer herding his flock right across the carriageway. There we were, engine idling, watching this woolly parade like it was the Changing of the Guard, me laughing while my other half muttered about Welsh road etiquette. But honestly, it set the perfect tone – no rush, just that bubbling anticipation of a proper seaside getaway. By the time we rolled into town, the sun was dipping low over the bay, and Llandudno’s Victorian promenade stretched out like an old friend waving hello. First impressions? Spot on. The sea air hit you like a tonic, and our holiday cottage – a cosy little semi-detached number with a welcoming electric log effect fire – felt like home from the off.

We’d barely unpacked when we wandered down to the prom for fish and chips, and that’s where we met Dai, the chippy’s owner, a proper character with a beard like a Brillo pad and stories for days. “New to Llandudno, eh?” he grinned, wrapping our cod in yesterday’s News of the World. Turned out he’d been slinging spuds here since the ’70s, back when the pier had a zoo and goats roamed the Great Orme. He regaled us with tales of the time a donkey bolted during a donkey derby, scattering punters like confetti. We were in stitches, grease dripping down our chins, as he warned us about the “ghost tram” that supposedly rattles up the hill at midnight. Pure gold – who needs Netflix?

Next morning, fuelled by a fry-up, we headed to the pier, where we bumped into Mrs Evans, the bingo caller with a voice like a foghorn and a perm that defied gravity. She clocked our accents straight away – “English lot, are ya? Don’t worry, we’ll Welsh-ify you by teatime!” Over a game of housie (that’s bingo to you southerners), she shared how she’d once won a weekend in Blackpool but swapped it for a lifetime supply of rock from the factory down the road. Her gentle ribbing about our “posh” accents had everyone chuckling, and by the end, she’d roped us into shouting “legs eleven” with gusto. I caught myself thinking, isn’t this the magic of places like this? Strangers turning into mates over two fat ladies and a full house.

Afternoons were for ambling along the West Shore beach, where we met Tommy, the retired fisherman mending nets by the pebbles. Weather-beaten face, pipe in mouth, he spun yarns about storm-tossed nights off the Orme and the massive bass he’d hooked back in ’89 – “big as your leg, boy!” We chatted for hours about nothing and everything, from the best chip spots to why Llandudno’s trams are the bee’s knees. That evening, back by our electric log effect fire, mugs of tea in hand, I had a quiet moment reflecting on it all. In the rush of life back home, you forget how a few quirky chats can recharge the soul. No grand adventures needed – just good folk, salty air, and a heart full of laughs. Llandudno, you legend. We’re already plotting a return.