I’ll never forget the drive up to Rhos-on-Sea last month – a proper North Wales jaunt that started with high hopes and a dodgy sat-nav. We’d packed the car with books, a picnic, and the dog’s favourite squeaky toy, buzzing with that pre-holiday excitement. But halfway through Colwyn Bay, the heavens opened, and I took a wrong turn onto a one-way street that spat us out right in front of a chippy queue. Classic me – always the navigator who thinks she knows better than Google. Still, we laughed it off, grabbed some fish and chips for the road (proper greasy ones, none of your fancy nonsense), and pressed on. By the time we pulled up to this lovely ground-floor apartment on the seafront, the rain had cleared, leaving that crisp Welsh air that makes you breathe deeper.

First impressions? Spot on. It’s right by the beach, just a pebble’s toss from the sand, and dead handy for the local shops – off-road parking was a godsend with our boot stuffed full. Stepping inside felt like sinking into a mate’s cosy front room: plush sofas begging you to flop down, a smart TV for lazy evenings, and a kitchen kitted out enough to whip up a brew or a pasta bake without faffing about. The dog went straight for his bed (pet-friendly, hurrah), and we cracked open the windows to let in the sound of waves lapping. No grand plans, mind – this trip was all about doing bugger all, and it delivered in spades.

The next few days blurred into the best kind of nothing. Mornings kicked off with coffee on the little patio, feet up, watching the tide roll in over the Promenade. Rhos-on-Sea’s got that gentle vibe – no crowds, just families strolling the seafront and the odd ice cream van tinkling by. I’d potter into the parade of shops for milk and a paper, maybe snag a pasty from the bakery, then back for garden lounging. It’s not a massive plot, but sheltered and sunny, perfect for sprawling with a book while the dog chased shadows. I devoured two paperbacks that week – one thriller I’d been saving, the other some light memoir that had me chuckling at my own daft life choices.

Afternoons were for proper slowing down. A gentle wander to the beach maybe, toes in the sand, building lopsided castles with the other half, or just sitting on the bench by the prom, letting the world drift. Evenings? Kettle on, homemade curry bubbling (that kitchen’s a dream), then sofa slump with a film – we binged an old series about Welsh villages, fittingly soporific. One night, staring out at the darkening sea, I had a proper moment: how often do we rush about, ticking boxes? Here, time stretched like toffee. No emails pinging, no deadlines – just the joy of being still, recharging like a knackered phone.

We did venture once to the nearby café for cream tea (scones fluffy as clouds), but mostly it was patio, pages, and peace. Leaving felt bittersweet – that small mishap on arrival now a funny story, the apartment a memory of unhurried bliss. If you’re after North Wales without the hike, this is your spot. Proper restorative.