The drive up to Llandudno was a right old faff – we took a wrong turn somewhere near Colwyn Bay and ended up in a narrow lane with sheep eyeballing us like we'd gatecrashed their picnic. By the time we pulled up, I was knackered, but the sight of this cracking contemporary cottage tucked away in a peaceful spot near the coast made it all worthwhile. First impressions? Spot on. Glass-fronted porch screaming sunset vibes, and that open-plan living space inside looked like it was made for kicking back with mates or the family.

We'd barely unpacked when we wandered down to the high street for a pint and some chips. That's where we met Dai, the chip shop bloke with a beard like a Brillo pad and stories for days. "You staying up by the Orme, then?" he asked, eyeing our sandy shoes. Turned out he'd lived in Llandudno his whole life, born in a house that got washed away in the big flood of '90 – or so he reckoned. He spent ten minutes regaling us with tales of ghost goats on the Great Orme, swearing blind they'd nicked his grandad's toolbox once. We were in stitches, grease dripping everywhere. "Mind the seagulls," he warned with a wink. "They're trained by the council to dive-bomb tourists."

Next morning, out in the front garden with the table tennis set up, we got chatting to Mrs Evans from next door over the fence. Proper character, she was – eighty if she was a day, with a fag on the go and a cackle that could wake the dead. "Fancy a go on me table football?" she hollered, challenging my lad to a match. She thrashed him 10-2, all while dishing dirt on the local gossip: who was feuding with who at the bowling club, and how the cable car man up the Orme always sneaks an extra Mars bar to kids who say "please" in Welsh. We ended up inviting her round for tea later, and she brought her famous bara brith, still warm from the oven. Sat in that woodburner-warmed sitting room, watching the sea through the windows, it felt like we'd known her forever.

Up on the terraced garden that afternoon, book in hand but mostly just gazing at the waves, along came old Tom from down the road, walking his terrier. "Room for a small one?" he grinned, plonking down with a thermos of tea. Tom's the king of quirky facts – did you know the pier's got a ghost orchestra that plays on foggy nights? We didn't, but by the end of his yarn, we were half-believing it. He even roped the kids into a game of ping-pong, trash-talking like a pro: "That's not a serve, that's a love letter!"

Reflecting on it now, holidays aren't about ticking off sights (though the cable car ride from Happy Valley was a laugh, wind whipping our hair). It's the locals – those eccentrics with their tall tales and open doors – that make a place stick. Llandudno's got 'em in spades, and basing ourselves in that gem of a cottage meant we were right in the thick of it. Can't wait to go back and catch up with the gang.