I’ll never forget the drive up to Llandudno – one of those classic Welsh jaunts where the sat-nav decides to have a midlife crisis just as you’re cresting the A55. Mine cheerfully announced we’d missed a turn (we hadn’t), and suddenly we were rerouted through some back lane that felt more like a sheep’s personal runway. Baa-ing protests aside, we rolled into town with the sun dipping low over the bay, hearts racing a bit from the unplanned detour, but buzzing with that proper holiday anticipation. You know, the kind where you’re already imagining fish and chips by the pier?

Pulling up to our spot, right in the heart of Llandudno, we were chuffed to bits. It’s this cracking ground-floor studio apartment, dead central and spot-on for a couple like us – tidy layout, everything you need without the faff, so you unpack, flop down, and you’re off exploring in no time. First impressions? Pure magic. The sea breeze wafting in, the promenade just a stroll away. But honestly, what made the whole stay weren’t the views (gorgeous as they were), it was the characters we bumped into. Llandudno’s got a knack for quirky locals who turn a simple holiday into a proper yarn.

Take Dai, the chippy bloke on Mostyn Street. We’d barely stepped out for supper when he clocked us as newcomers – “You lot from down south, eh? Lost already?” he grinned, handing over our cod and mushy peas with a wink. Turned out he’d been frying since the donkeys wore trainers, and over his tales of dodging seagulls nicking chips off the counter, we got the lowdown on the best pint spots. “Avoid the tourists on the pier,” he advised, “head to the Cottage Loaf – proper ale and no drongos.” We laughed, and that chat set the tone: friendly, no-nonsense Welsh warmth.

Next day, strolling the West Shore beach – that quieter stretch with sands like powdered sugar – we met Mrs Evans, walker extraordinaire. She was out with her terrier, Percy, who took an instant shine to my trainers. “He’s a menace, that one,” she chuckled, reeling him in. Eighty if she was a day, but sharp as a tack, regaling us with stories of Llandudno’s heyday: the heyday when the trams ran wild and the Grand Hotel was the bee’s knees. “You young ’uns don’t know you’re born,” she teased, but her eyes twinkled. We ended up walking with her for an hour, chatting about everything from the Ore Pier’s ghostly legends to her secret recipe for bara brith. Proper heart-warmer, that was.

Then there was Tommo, the pier arcade wizard we found nursing a bag of 2ps at the penny slots. “Fancy a go, mate? I’ve cracked the machine,” he boasted, with a conspiratorial nod. Skinny as a whippet, tattoos from elbow to wrist, he looked like he’d stepped out of a Carry On film. We lost a fiver between us, but won his life story – ex-fisherman turned busker, now king of the two-pence falls. “Life’s a gamble, innit? But Llandudno’s the jackpot.” His laugh was infectious, and we left with pockets lighter but grinning like idiots.

Looking back, sat on our little balcony with a cuppa as the sun set over the bay, I had one of those gentle moments. Me, always rushing about back home, faffing with deadlines – here I was, properly present, just chatting with these gems of folks. No grand adventures needed; the real magic was in those daft, heartfelt conversations that make a place stick with you. If you’re after a seaside escape laced with character, you can’t go wrong round here. We drove off lighter-hearted, already plotting a return.