I’d barely parked the car outside Highgate when the satnav cheerfully announced we’d arrived and promptly died, leaving me staring at a blank screen and a hedge that definitely wasn’t the cottage. After a quick reverse that nearly clipped a wheelie bin, we found the right gate and tumbled out with that giddy, slightly damp feeling you get when the sea air hits you for the first time.

The owner’s note said the key was under the snail-shaped stone, but the first person we met was Mrs Pritchard from next door, who’d popped over with a spare because “you never know with those snails.” She was already in full flow about the seagulls nicking her chips last week, and before I could even introduce myself she’d recruited us to help carry a tray of Welsh cakes to the little honesty stall by the promenade railings.

We were still brushing crumbs off our jackets when a chap in a bright yellow cagoule wandered over and asked if we were “the new lot in Highgate.” Turns out he ran the morning swim group and reckoned the water was “bracing but character-building.” I told him I preferred my character at room temperature, which made him laugh so hard he nearly dropped his thermos.

By the time we’d lugged our bags inside, the kettle was already on thanks to another neighbour, a retired postie called Gwyn, who’d let himself in to check the pilot light and stayed for a cuppa. He gave us a running commentary on every dog that passed the window, complete with names, favourite treats and the occasional scandal about who’d been seen walking whom. I found myself nodding along like I’d lived here for years, only realising I was still wearing my coat when Gwyn pointed it out with a gentle, “You’ll boil in that, love.”

Later, while we were trying to work the quirky heating, Mrs Pritchard reappeared with a small posy of sea thrift she’d cut from the garden wall. She stayed to chat about the best bench for watching the lifeboat launch, then asked, quite seriously, whether we’d brought enough socks. Apparently the wind had a habit of sneaking up trouser legs on the North Shore. I promised her we had spares, which seemed to satisfy some local code of readiness I hadn’t known existed.

By the evening, Highgate already felt less like a holiday let and more like a borrowed living room. The neighbours drifted in and out with stories, warnings and the occasional spare mug, and I caught myself wondering whether the real charm of Llandudno wasn’t the view from the window but the people who kept popping through the door to make sure you were settling in properly.