I nearly didn't make it to our holiday let in Penmaenmawr after taking a wrong turn on the A55 – ended up in some cheeky little layby staring at a sheep that looked as baffled as I was. But once I got back on track, the anticipation built as those North Wales mountains loomed into view, promising proper coastal drama. Pulling up to this grand old property perched high over the town, with the sea crashing below and peaks stretching out like an old postcard, my first impressions were spot on – it felt like stepping into a hug from the landscape itself.

Inside, it was all class: two cosy sitting rooms with massive TVs and fireplaces that made you want to flop down immediately, plus a huge kitchen with a range cooker and a big wooden table perfect for feeding the clan. We were a mixed bag – me, my other half, and a couple of mates with their kids – and it was ideal for us lot to sprawl out without tripping over each other.

What made the week, though, were the characters we bumped into. First off, there was Dai the postman, who delivered our forgotten milk (cheers to the host for sorting that) while regaling us with tales of the 1980s when Penmaenmawr's prom was the spot for illicit chip butty picnics under the stars. "Mind the seagulls, bach," he winked, "they've got sharper beaks than my ex-wife's tongue." We laughed so hard we nearly spilled the tea.

Down on the prom, we met Mavis, the ice cream lady who's been slinging 99s since the Beatles were in short trousers. She's got this wild cackle and insists on double flakes "for the English visitors – builds character." Chatting with her about the old trams that used to rattle up from Llandudno, just a quick hop along the coast path, she shared how her nan once danced a jig on the pier during a storm. "Life's too short for brollies," she declared, handing over cones to the kids who were hooked.

Then there was grumpy-but-lovable Tom at the local chippie in the village centre. He grumbled about the tourists blocking his van but lit up when we asked about his secret batter recipe – "Welsh dragon fire, that's what." Over fish suppers on the beach, he spun yarns about ghost ships off the headland and how the mountains whisper secrets at dusk. The kids were mesmerised, and even I felt a bit reflective, thinking how these chats beat scrolling on my phone any day.

We wandered the coastal path to Llandudno's pier one afternoon – all arcade lights and donkey rides – where we fell in with a gaggle of pensioners playing crazy golf. Led by cheeky Sid, who claimed he'd once beaten Seve Ballesteros there (pull the other one), they roped us into a tournament. "Family first, swings second," Sid chuckled as my putt went wildly off-course. It was pure joy, those unexpected bonds with locals who treat you like you've always been one of them.

Back at the house, nursing a slightly bruised ego from golf, we gathered round the fire, swapping stories from the day. Moments like that make you pause – amid the laughs and sea views, it's the quirky folk who turn a holiday into something you'll rabbit on about for years. Can't wait to go back and see what mischief Dai's cooked up next.