I’ll never forget the drive up to Llandudno – well, near enough, tucked away in that lovely Conway Valley bit. We’d piled into the car from Manchester with the dog bouncing about like he’d had one too many coffees, and about halfway there, disaster struck: I took a wrong turn onto one of those narrow Welsh lanes that just keep narrowing, convinced we were heading for a hedge. A quick reverse manoeuvre (with much swearing under my breath, thankfully inaudible to the kids) and we were back on track, arriving just as the sun dipped low over the valley, painting everything golden. My heart lifted instantly – this place was even better than the photos.

It’s one of those cosy holiday cottages right on the quiet edge of the Bodnant Estate, gazing west across the valley to those Snowdonia peaks. Sleeps four comfortably, all on one level which is brilliant for us lot, with a private hot tub on the patio and a heated indoor pool we share with just the one neighbour – open round the clock, pure bliss. Dog-friendly too, complete with a boot room that became our muddy HQ.

But let’s be honest, the real star was the food. First night, we didn’t fancy faffing about so cracked open the welcome hamper – local cheeses, fresh bread, and a bottle of Welsh cider that went down a treat while we bubbled in the hot tub. Next morning, a ten-minute pootle to Bodnant Garden’s café for their legendary bacon butties and coffee strong enough to wake the dead. I had a go at cooking that evening, nicking some lamb chops from the local butcher in nearby Llanwrst (a quick five-minute drive). Slathered them in rosemary from the garden patch outside, chucked them under the grill – turned out half decent, actually, served with spuds roasted in duck fat I’d smugly picked up at the farmers’ market there. The kids demolished it, declaring me “cheffy” for the day. Gentle self-reflection moment: who knew I had it in me? Usually my kitchen efforts end in smoke alarms.

Pub crawls were next level. The Groes in St George, just a couple of miles up the road, did the best fish and chips I’ve had in ages – proper crispy batter, mushy peas on point, and pints of Conway Brewery ale that tasted like they’d been brewed with valley magic. We went back twice. Then there’s the Hats and Heels in Eglwysbach, a proper local with hearty Sunday roasts; we timed it perfectly, carving into beef that melted, Yorkshires puffed up like clouds, all while the dog snoozed under the table. Tried my hand at a Welsh rarebit one night back at the cottage – grated cheddar, mustard, Worcester sauce on doorstep toast. Bit of a gloopy mess first go, but the second batch? Spot on, scoffed by the pool with a cheeky gin and tonic.

Markets were our daily pilgrimage. That Llanwrst one on Saturdays had stalls groaning under artisan breads, smoked salmon from the Conway estuary, and jars of chutney that I wish I’d stocked up more on. We grabbed crab claws and whelks for a seaside picnic – okay, it rained, so picnic in the hot tub instead, laughing like idiots. Even attempted cawl, that proper Welsh stew, simmering lamb neck from the butcher with leeks and carrots. Came out hearty and warming, perfect after a splash in the pool.

Honestly, it was the kind of holiday where every meal felt like a treat, blending lazy pub noshes with my half-arsed kitchen triumphs. Left us stuffed, happy, and already plotting a return. If you’re after proper Welsh grub in a stunning spot, you can’t go wrong here.