We’d barely made it off the A55 when the satnav decided to test my patience, cheerfully announcing we’d arrived at the cottage when we were still two roundabouts away. I pulled over in a lay-by, gave the screen a stern look, and we finally trundled into the little car park behind 6 Bed Cottage just as the first spots of rain began to speckle the windscreen. The cottage itself looked promising from the outside – a neat, white-painted place tucked behind a low stone wall, with the sea only a short stroll down the road.

After wrestling our bags through the narrow side gate we were straight into unpacking mode, but hunger had already taken over. We’d only managed a quick coffee at the services, so the first order of business was finding something proper to eat. A five-minute wander brought us to a cheerful little café on the seafront where I demolished a Welsh rarebit that was far more generous than the menu suggested, while my partner worked through a bowl of cockles that arrived steaming and perfectly salty. We sat by the window watching families trail sand across the prom and felt the holiday properly begin.

Back at the cottage the kitchen proved to be the real star – bright, practical, and stocked with enough plates and pans for proper cooking. We’d stopped at the little Co-op on the way in and came away with a couple of fat Welsh lamb chops, some new potatoes, and a punnet of Welsh cakes for pudding. I volunteered to cook, which turned out to be optimistic; the chops were fine but I managed to turn the potatoes into something that could only be described as enthusiastic mash. We ate it anyway, laughing at the lumpy bits, and finished the evening with a pint at the little pub two streets away whose back room was already filling with locals comparing notes on the day’s catch.

The next morning we woke to proper sunshine and headed straight for the weekly market that sets up near the pier. Between the cheese stall and the fishmonger we gathered supplies for a proper lunch – fresh mussels, a crusty loaf, and a small round of Caerphilly that the stallholder swore was the best in the county. Back at the cottage we steamed the mussels with garlic and cider, tore into the bread, and ate on the little patio while seagulls wheeled overhead. It felt wonderfully simple, the sort of meal that makes you slow down and actually taste what’s on your plate.

That evening we tried the pub again, this time for their famous pie night. My steak-and-ale arrived with mash that put my earlier attempt to shame, and we lingered over a second round while chatting with a couple who’d been coming to Colwyn Bay every summer for thirty years. By the time we wandered home, the light was fading and the cottage felt like ours already – a place where the biggest decisions were what to cook next and whether we could justify another Welsh cake before bed.