I’ll never forget the drive up to Llandudno – rain lashing the windscreen like it had a personal grudge, and just as we hit the A55, the satnav decided to throw a wobbly and reroute us through some cheeky back lanes. We ended up behind a tractor crawling along at snail’s pace, the kids in the back chanting “Are we there yet?” on repeat. But honestly, that little mishap just built the anticipation – by the time we crested the hill and spotted the seafront twinkling below, we were buzzing.

Pulling up to our ground-floor apartment right in the heart of Llandudno felt like stumbling into a hug from an old mate. It’s one of those spots with off-road parking that saved our bacon (and free on-street for the in-laws’ car), and stepping inside? Blimey, the original encaustic tiles underfoot, those soaring ceilings with fancy coving, sash windows letting in the light, and chandeliers that sparkle like they’re auditioning for Downton Abbey. Proper period charm mixed with all the mod cons – fluffy towels, a telly bigger than our lounge at home, and a kitchen that didn’t look like it’d explode if you boiled a kettle. Perfect for us lot: me, the wife, our two nippers, and the dog, who’d already claimed the rug as his throne.

First morning, we wandered down to the Promenade – five minutes’ flat – with fish and chips in mind for lunch, but got sidetracked by the pier. The kids went wild on the 2p machines, me and the missus nursing hot mugs of tea while the waves crashed in. Llandudno’s got that unpretentious vibe, you know? No need for grand plans; we just ambled along the North Shore beach, building lopsided sandcastles that the tide cheekily flattened, laughing as the dog chased imaginary seagulls. Evenings were pure bliss: firing up a picnic in the lounge (well, beans on toast elevated with local cheddar from the market), then a gentle stroll to the high street for ice creams from that brilliant parlour everyone raves about. The chaos of cottage life hit when the youngest smeared jam everywhere and the pup knocked over a lamp – nothing a quick wipe and a giggle couldn’t fix.

One quiet moment, sat by the sash window with a cuppa as the sun dipped over the bay, I caught myself thinking how these simple bits – the shared mess, the salty air, no rush – are what recharge the batteries. We nipped to the Orme for a tram ride up top, gasping at the views (goats everywhere, what a laugh), and bodged a family barbecue on the little patio, dodging the odd shower. No.22 wrapped it all up in that cosy bubble, blending history with our happy havoc.

By the end of the week, we were gutted to pack up, but already plotting a return. North Wales does these relaxed family escapes like no one else – just you, the sea, and a bit of joyful disorder. Proper tonic.