I’ll never forget the drive up to Bala – we’d packed the car with enough cheese and crackers to survive a siege, but about halfway through the A5, the satnav decided to have a midlife crisis and rerouted us down some winding back lane that felt like it was leading to Narnia. Turned out it was just a cheeky shortcut past a herd of sheep who eyed us suspiciously as if we were intruders. We arrived a bit later than planned, hearts racing a tad, but oh boy, that first glimpse of the cottage made it all worthwhile. Nestled at the edge of town in its own enclosed yard, it’s this gorgeous barn conversion with a modern vibe – tastefully done, private as anything, and with a hot tub just begging for a unwind. Five minutes’ walk to Bala Lake and the high street? Dreamy. I was buzzing already, imagining lazy evenings bubbling away while plotting our next feast.

First things first, we dumped the bags and hot-footed it to the high street for provisions. Bala’s market town charm hit me straight away – that little weekly market was on, stalls groaning under fresh veg, local cheeses, and homemade bara brith that smelled like heaven. I grabbed a hunk of Snowdonia Black Bomber (proper sharp, that one) and some plump tomatoes, feeling all virtuous about supporting local producers. Back at the cottage, the kitchen was a joy – sleek and stocked, so we attempted a Welsh rarebit supper. Mine turned out a bit more ‘welded to the grill’ than rarebit, but slathered with chutney from the market, it was a triumph. Laughed about it over a bottle of Brains, toasting our amateur chef status.

Next morning, breakfast was a self-catered affair with sausages from the butcher on the high street – thick, herby beauties that sizzled perfectly in the oven. We wandered to the lake for a gentle stroll (watersports can wait when there’s caffeine calling), then hit the White Lion pub for lunch. Proper pub grub: lamb cawl that warmed the cockles, followed by a pint of Conway Welsh Pride. The locals were dead chatty, swapping tips on the best spots for faggots and peas. Afternoon? More market foraging – artisan bread, smoked salmon from the lake fisheries, and a tub of cockles that had me channeling my inner Cardiff granny.

Evenings were pure bliss. One night, we fired up the hot tub with views over the yard, then cooked a full Bala blowout: roast chicken with those market spuds, gravy from scratch (nailed it this time), and a crumble using foraged berries we’d nabbed from a café punnet. Another evening, we ambled to the Cross Foxes for fish and chips – crispy batter, mushy peas done right, eaten picnic-style by the lake. My cooking attempts had their moments of comedy – like the time the pasta boiled over and we ended up with a steamy kitchen sauna – but it made everything taste better, you know?

Reflecting on it now, sat here back home with a cuppa, that week was a gentle nudge that holidays aren’t about fancy restaurants every night, but pottering in a cracking kitchen, grazing markets, and propping up pub bars with mates. Bala’s food scene is unpretentious gold – fresh, hearty, and full of character. We left fatter, happier, and already plotting a return for more of the same. Proper tonic for the soul.