I’ll never forget the drive up to Llanrwst – we’d set off from Manchester full of beans, singing along to the radio, but then halfway there, the sat-nav decided to have a midlife crisis and sent us down a narrow lane that was basically a sheep’s personal runway. We ended up nose-to-nose with a farmer in a battered Land Rover, both of us laughing as he reversed into a hedge to let us pass. “First time in these parts?” he grinned through his window, all rosy cheeks and tweed cap. Turned out Dai was his name, and he gave us the lowdown on avoiding the tourist traps in Llandudno, just a quick hop over the valley.

Pulling into the parking spot near our ground-floor apartment, I was buzzing with that holiday anticipation – you know, imagining cosy evenings after tramping about. First impressions? Spot on. It’s this neat, stylish spot tucked away in the market town, perfect for kicking back with mates or family. Two well-behaved dogs in tow (ours were angels, mostly), we stepped into the open-plan living area, all inviting seats and a Smart TV begging for a Netflix binge. The kitchen had everything – oven, hob, the works – and that dining table screamed “gather round for stories”. Shared hot tub out back? Game-changer after a day’s exploring.

But honestly, the real magic was the characters we met, the quirky locals who made it feel like we’d stumbled into a sitcom. First up was Mrs Evans at the little bakery on the high street, no more than a five-minute wander. She’s this tiny whirlwind with a laugh like a foghorn, doling out bara brith and gossip in equal measure. “You staying long? Mind the seagulls in Llandudno – they’re bolder than my ex-husband!” We chatted about her glory days entering the flower show at the town’s pavilion, her eyes twinkling as she warned us about the cheeky birds pinching chips on the pier. Over tea and her rock cakes (slightly overbaked, but who’s judging?), I found myself reflecting on how we city folk rush everything – here, time stretches like her best dough.

Then there was Tommo, the fisherman we bumped into by the Conway River, rods in hand and a thermos of something strong brewing. He reckoned he’d caught a monster salmon that morning but let it go “for the river’s sake”. We yarned about the best walks up towards the foothills of Eryri – nothing too strenuous, just those gentle paths with views that stop you in your tracks. “Llandudno’s got the buzz, but Llanrwst’s where the heart beats,” he said, with a wink. Later, firing up the hot tub under the stars, we replayed his tales, chuckling at his impression of the mayor’s speech at the summer fete.

Even at the local, The Gwydir Arms – a stone’s throw away – we fell in with Huw, the barman who’s been pouring pints since the Beatles were in short trousers. He regaled us with stories of eccentric regulars, like old Idris who swears he saw a ghost by the Great Orme but only after one too many. “You lot from down south? Try the cawl – keeps the Welsh weather at bay.” Those chats over steaming bowls and local ale were pure gold, reminding me gently that holidays aren’t just about sights, but the folk who make you feel like you belong.

We pottered to Llandudno’s pier for donkey rides and arcade fun, but it was those Llanrwst encounters that lingered. As we packed up, I caught myself thinking: maybe I need more of that unhurried chat in my everyday life. What a cracking few days.