I’d barely parked the car outside Curzon Heights before the heavens opened, turning what should have been a quick dash from the boot into an impromptu shower scene. My partner and I had driven up from Chester that morning, windows down, radio loud, convinced the forecast was just being dramatic. By the time we wrestled the suitcases through the front door, we looked like we’d taken an accidental dip in the Irish Sea. Still, the cottage felt instantly welcoming—bright kitchen, squishy sofas, and that unbeatable view straight over the rooftops to the sweep of Llandudno Bay.

Once we’d dried off and brewed a proper cuppa, the rain eased enough for us to wander down Happy Valley Road towards the promenade. We’d planned a longer coastal hike along the Marine Drive loop, but the clouds were still hanging low, so we settled for a gentler stroll along the beach instead. The tide was out, revealing long stretches of damp sand perfect for skimming stones, and we ended up chatting with a couple from Manchester who’d had the same bright idea. By the time we reached the pier, the sun had broken through, turning the water a ridiculous shade of turquoise and making us wonder why we’d ever doubted the day.

That change of plans became the pattern for the week. Each morning we’d set out with boots on and sandwiches packed, only for the weather to nudge us toward something shorter or closer. One afternoon we followed the path that climbs behind the cottage toward the Little Orme, stopping every few minutes to catch our breath and take in the sweep of coast below. The breeze up there was fresh enough to make us glad we’d brought jumpers, but the views made every step worthwhile. We spotted seals bobbing just offshore and watched a red kite wheel lazily above the cliffs.

Another day we tried the full Marine Drive circuit, hugging the edge of the Great Orme with the sea far below. Halfway round, a sudden shower sent us scurrying into the shelter of an old stone wall, where we ate our slightly squashed pasties and laughed at how optimistic the weather apps had been. When the rain passed, the path glistened and the air smelled sharply of wet grass and salt. We carried on, slower this time, stopping often to point out fishing boats or the tiny figures on the beach far beneath us.

By the end of the week I realised the mishaps and weather shifts hadn’t spoiled anything; they’d simply shaped the sort of holiday that felt properly ours. Curzon Heights gave us the perfect base to step out each day, boots muddy, hair windswept, and return with stories instead of a rigid itinerary. Sometimes the best adventures are the ones that start with a soaking and end with fish and chips on the promenade, still damp but thoroughly content.