I’ll never forget the drive to our holiday house near Llandudno – or rather, the near-disaster that kicked it off. We’d piled into the car from Manchester, kids buzzing in the back with crisps and iPads, me navigating via a dodgy sat-nav that suddenly decided to send us down a single-track lane in the Conway Valley. “Turn left in 200 yards,” it chirped, just as a sheep decided to block the way, staring us down like it owned the place. Heart in mouth, I reversed into a hedge, swearing under my breath (quietly, mind), while my husband laughed his head off. Twenty minutes later, we emerged, dusty but alive, and crested the hill to spot our spacious detached house nestled among grazing fields, an alpaca enclosure just beyond. Blimey, what a first impression – those extensive country views hit like a tonic, and the luxurious hot tub on the patio promised evenings of pure bliss. We tumbled out, anticipation turning to grins as we stepped into the large central hallway, eyes drawn straight through the dining area to the rolling rural scenery.

Unpacking done, we cracked open a bottle of wine in the stylish sitting room – woodburning stove primed for later – and spilled out onto the conservatory patio. That’s when the real magic started: the quirky locals who made our stay unforgettable. First up was Dai, the alpaca bloke from next door, who wandered over with a cheeky wave and a thermos of tea. “Fancy a stroke?” he asked, nodding at his fluffy herd. Turned out Dai’s a retired postman with stories for days – like the time he delivered mail to a sheep farmer who swore his flock could predict the weather better than the BBC. We spent the afternoon chatting over the fence, him regaling us with tales of Eglwysbach’s annual eisteddfod, where villagers belt out hymns in Welsh that’d make your toes curl. “You lot from England?” he winked. “Don’t worry, we’ll convert you by Tuesday.”

Next day, a stroll down to the village – just a mile away – led us to Mrs Evans at the post office cum tearoom. She’s a proper character, all sharp wit and stronger tea, dishing out scones and gossip in equal measure. “Heard you had the sheep incident,” she cackled, somehow already in the know. Over jam and clotted cream, she spun yarns about the local ghost who haunts the pub (we had to check it out later), and her own battle with a rogue fox that nicked her chickens. “Townies like you need fattening up,” she declared, piling on extra cake. My youngest took to her instantly, wide-eyed at the stories.

Evenings were for the hot tub, bubbles churning under starlit skies, while we bumped into Tom the shepherd at the farm gate. He’s got this deadpan humour – “Alpacas? Aye, they spit further than my ex-wife throws plates” – and invited us to watch lambing season prep, sharing pints of bitter about valley life. One night, fire crackling in the stove, I sat reflecting quietly: amid the laughter and characters, I realised how rare it is to escape the daily grind for these unscripted chats. No screens, just real folk with warmth to match the views.

By week’s end, we’d adopted half the village’s quirks – even tried a bit of Welsh. Those locals didn’t just make the holiday; they were the heart of it. Can’t wait to go back.