I’ll never forget the drive to Llandudno – or rather, the near-disaster on the way. We’d set off from Manchester full of beans, me behind the wheel of our little hatchback, dreaming of sea breezes and fish and chips. But halfway along the A55, just past Colwyn Bay, I missed a turn-off in the rain-lashed gloom and ended up in a snarl of roadworks. “Typical me,” I muttered, as we idled behind a lorry belching fumes. Half an hour later, we were back on track, hearts racing a bit, but the anticipation built as Conway’s medieval walls loomed into view. By the time we crested the hill to our spot just outside town, the sun was peeking out, and first impressions? Magic. This beautifully refurbished one-bedroom cottage felt like a hug – all high-end finishes and modern luxuries blended seamlessly with that timeless Welsh charm. Off-road parking for two cars (and an EV charger, which we didn’t need but loved spotting), perfect for us and our daft spaniel, Monty. The open-plan kitchen, dining, and sitting area was the star – branded appliances everywhere, from the double oven to the drinks chiller. We cracked open a bottle of fizz right away, grinning like kids.

But honestly, the real joy was the characters we met – Llandudno and Conway are brimming with them, the sort that make you chuckle and feel right at home. First up was Dai, the postman who delivered our parcel the morning after (forgotten teabags – rookie error). He rocked up in his van, whistling a tune from the Eisteddfod, and eyed Monty with suspicion. “Is he a biter, then?” he asked, deadpan. Turned out Dai’s a retired fisherman from Llandudno’s North Shore, full of tales about dodging seals off the pier. “They’re cheekier than the gulls,” he winked, before launching into how the Great Orme’s trams used to scare the life out of tourists back in the day. We ended up chatting for 20 minutes on the doorstep, him refusing a cuppa but insisting we try the cockles from the market.

Then there was Mrs. Evans from the tearoom in Conway’s high street, a short stroll away. We wandered down for elevenses, past the castle’s mighty walls, and she clocked us as “English incomers” straight off. “You’ve picked a grand spot up there,” she said, pouring tea strong enough to strip paint. Over Welsh cakes, she regaled us with stories of her nan, who’d danced at the Llandudno Pavilion in the 1920s. “Proper glamour, mind – before the bingo took over,” she laughed, her eyes twinkling. Monty got a surreptitious biscuit under the table, and we left stuffed and smiling.

The evenings brought more gems. At the Little Chef-style café near the promenade (well, it’s West Shore, but same vibe), we met Tommo, a local tram enthusiast nursing a pint of lager top. “You up at that hilltop place?” he guessed, spotting our muddy boots from a clifftop walk. He spun yarns about the cable cars on the Orme, claiming he’d once hitched a ride with a goat herder. “Sheep are daft, but goats? Proper adventurers.” We howled, swapping dog stories – his terrier once chased a pensioner’s hat into the sea.

Reflecting on it now, sat back home with a cuppa, I realise it’s those quirky chats that stick. Not the fancy kitchen (though whipping up a curry in that setup was lush) or the serene views, but the warmth of strangers turning into mates over a natter. Llandudno’s got that pull – a bit faded-glory pier, wild Orme walks, and folk who make you feel you’ve known them forever. We’re already plotting a return. Monty’s paws are twitching too.