I’ll never forget the drive up to Llandudno – we piled into the car from Manchester, kids buzzing in the back with crisps and sweets, me navigating on my phone while my other half drove. About halfway, disaster struck: a rogue seagull decided our windscreen was its personal loo, splattering it with the mother of all gifts. We pulled over near Colwyn Bay for an emergency wipe-down with baby wipes and a lot of laughing – classic family holiday start, right? But as we crested the hill into Llandudno, the sea sparkled like a promise, and my heart lifted. I was buzzing with that proper anticipation – beach on one side, Victorian promenade on the other, and our massive eight-bedroom holiday home waiting just a stone’s throw from it all.

Pulling up, the first impressions were spot on. It’s this elegant beast spread over three floors, dead central, with every bedroom kitted out with its own en-suite – perfect for our big group of 18 adults, a few under-16s, and the tiniest ones. No faffing about queues for the loo at 3am! We tumbled in, bags everywhere, and straight away I clocked the ground-floor kitchen. Fully loaded with every gadget imaginable – I’m no Gordon Ramsay, but I fancied myself whipping up feasts for the lot of us. Dishwasher? Game-changer for lazy bones like me.

Food became the heartbeat of the trip. First night, we raided the local shops on Mostyn Street – just a two-minute wander – grabbing fresh Welsh lamb, local cheeses, and crates of that creamy Llandudno ice cream to tide us over. I had a bash at a massive shepherd’s pie in the kitchen, potatoes fluffy as clouds, though I slightly overdid the garlic and sent one mate into a sneezing fit. We laughed it off with bottles of Brains SA from the offy, sprawled round the huge dining table, plates piled high. Proper home-from-home vibes.

Next day, we hit the Orme Street market – it’s a gem, stalls groaning with bara brith, cockles straight from the bay, and handmade fudge that had the kids’ eyes popping. I stuffed my bags with leeks, bacon, and those fat, juicy tomatoes for brekkies. Back at the house, breakfast was a riot: I manned the frying pan for full Welsh fry-ups – laverbread, cockles, bacon rashers – while everyone else chipped in, burning toast and spilling tea. Hilarious chaos, but it tasted like heaven with the sea breeze wafting through the windows.

Evenings were pub heaven. The Cottage Lofts round the corner does the best fish and chips – batter crisp as you like, wrapped in paper for that nostalgic touch. We’d wander over after beach walks, kids on chips, us adults on pints of local Conway ale. One night, I tried my hand at a seafood paella in the kitchen, inspired by the market’s fresh mussels. It was a bit of a gloopy mess – too much saffron, not enough stirring – and we ended up ordering pizzas from the spot on Gloddaeth Avenue. Note to self: stick to what you know, or at least Google recipes properly!

Looking back, amid all the scoffing and slurping, I had this quiet moment on the balcony, mulling over a cuppa and leftover bara brith. Holidays like this, centred round good food and daft kitchen disasters, remind you what matters – full bellies, full hearts, no pretence. Llandudno delivered on every level, and we’re already plotting the next feast-fest.