I’ll never forget the drive up to Porthmadog – sat nav had me weaving through those narrow lanes like a dodgy rally driver, and wouldn’t you know it, I took a wrong turn just outside Bangor and ended up in a dead-end farm track with sheep giving me the evil eye. A quick reverse and a bit of sheep-dodging later, we were back on track, hearts racing but buzzing with that holiday anticipation. As we rolled into the thriving harbour town, the salty sea air hit us, and pulling up to our first-floor apartment right by the water, my first impressions were spot on – those harbour views from the balcony screamed relaxation.

It’s a cracking spot for a couple or small family like ours: open-plan living with a kitchen that’s got everything you need, dining for four, and squashy sofas perfect for kicking back. Up a flight, there’s a twin room, and then the double on the next floor with its own harbour gaze – pure bliss. But let’s be honest, the real star was the food scene. We dove straight in on arrival day, unpacking bags of local goodies from the high street market stalls just a stone’s throw away. Crispy fresh bread, crumbly Welsh cheeses, and plump strawberries that tasted like summer – I couldn’t resist munching one straight off.

First evening, I fancied playing chef in that well-equipped kitchen. Grabbed some cod from the harbour fishmonger (so fresh it practically flapped), teamed it with new potatoes and samphire foraged vibes, and attempted a lemon butter sauce. It started off promising, but I overseasoned it something rotten – tasted like I’d emptied the entire herb rack! We laughed it off with a bottle of local craft cider from the offie, dining on the balcony as the sun dipped over the boats. Proper magical, even if my cooking needed work.

Next day, we hit the pubs. The Royal Sportsman down the road does a mean Sunday roast – tender Welsh lamb with all the trimmings, Yorkshire puds like fluffy clouds, and gravy that could make you weep. We waddled back for a siesta, then I had another bash at cooking: spaghetti with cockles from the market, chucked in garlic, chilli, and parsley. This time, success! The kids devoured it while we watched the harbour lights twinkle from the sitting area, Smart TV humming in the background for a post-dinner film.

Midweek, we wandered to the local bakery for bara brith and eccles cakes, then pub-hopped to Yr Hen Fecws for fish and chips wrapped in paper, eaten on the quay with gulls eyeing us up. One rainy afternoon, I reflected on it all – sat there with a cuppa, harbour mist rolling in, realising how these simple meals, botched or brilliant, knit us closer than any grand adventure. No need for far-flung hikes when the grub’s this good.

Back home now, I’m already plotting the next trip – more market hauls, pub pints, and maybe nailing that sauce. Porthmadog’s harbour heart won us over, one bite at a time.