We’d barely turned off the A55 when the sat-nav decided to have a laugh at our expense, sending us down a lane so narrow the wing mirrors practically kissed the hedges. By the time we pulled up at 9 Beckett Close, the boot was half-open, a bag of Welsh cakes had escaped, and I was muttering about technology while my other half calmly retrieved the stray buns from under the passenger seat. Still, the moment we stepped inside the little cottage, the smell of fresh paint and sea air made the journey feel worth it. The kitchen was small but perfectly formed, with a hob that looked ready for action and a fridge already humming away.

After a quick unpack we wandered the short distance to the front, where the sweep of Llandudno Bay glittered in the late afternoon light. Hunger hit almost instantly, so we followed the smell of frying chips to a cheerful chippy on the parade. Standing in the queue, paper trays in hand, I realised I’d left the vinegar in the cottage; naturally we ended up sharing the single sachet the chap behind the counter could spare, which only made the chips taste better for the comedy of it. Back at Beckett Close we spread everything on the little patio table and watched the tide creep in while seagulls wheeled overhead.

Next morning the local market was already in full swing when we arrived, baskets in hand. We loaded up on fresh cockles, a wedge of Caerphilly, and a crusty loaf still warm from the oven. The plan had been to cook a proper Welsh rarebit for lunch, but the cheese proved so moreish that half of it disappeared before the grill was even warm. We salvaged what was left, added a dash of mustard from the cupboard, and ended up with something that tasted far better than it looked—though the blackened crust earned a raised eyebrow from my other half.

By evening the lure of a proper pint proved irresistible. We strolled to a cosy pub tucked just off the main street, where the menu boasted hearty portions and the landlord knew half the customers by name. I ordered the lamb cawl, rich and steaming, while my partner went for battered haddock with peas. Conversation flowed as easily as the ale, helped along by a shared portion of sticky toffee pudding that neither of us really needed but both of us finished anyway.

The following day brought another attempt at home cooking—this time a seafood stew using the last of the cockles and some mussels from the fishmonger. Everything was going swimmingly until I tipped in a little too much wine and the whole pot bubbled over, sending a fragrant cloud through the cottage. We opened every window, laughed at the mess, and still managed to salvage a decent supper that we ate straight from the pan on the sofa, feet up, telly murmuring in the background.

Looking back, those first couple of days set the tone perfectly: a gentle rhythm of markets, pub lunches, and slightly chaotic kitchen experiments that left the cottage smelling of garlic and good intentions. It wasn’t fancy, but it felt like exactly the sort of unhurried break we’d been craving.