I’ll never forget the drive up to Criccieth last month – me behind the wheel, sat-nav chirping away, and the dog whining in the back because we’d stopped for a cheeky service station pasty that he wasn’t allowed. Then, just as we hit the A487, disaster: a rogue seagull dive-bombed the windscreen, leaving us splattered and laughing hysterically while I fumbled for the wipers. Typical start to a Welsh getaway, but by the time we rolled into this lovely seaside town, all was forgotten. Spotting the private parking spot right outside our ground-floor apartment, I felt that proper buzz of anticipation – sea views glinting in the distance, and the promise of kicking back after the chaos.

Stepping inside was pure bliss. It’s this splendid newly refurbished spot, all cosy and modern, perfect for us and the pooch. First impressions? Spot on. The homely sitting room with its Smart TV and that electric flame-effect stove screamed relaxation, especially with the beach just a stone’s throw away. But let’s be honest, the real star was the kitchen – high-quality appliances gleaming, begging for some holiday cooking experiments. My other half wasted no time unpacking the groceries we’d grabbed en route, while I flopped on the sofa with a cuppa, gazing out at the waves.

Food took centre stage from the off. That first evening, we rustled up a simple pasta with local crab we’d nipped out for from the high street fishmonger – fresh as anything, caught that morning off the Llyn Peninsula. The kitchen made it a doddle; everything whizzed together like pros, paired with a chilled white from the off-licence down the road. We ate on the little balcony, toes tapping to the sound of the sea, feeling dead smug about not splashing out on a restaurant.

Next day, we wandered to the local market on the promenade – proper North Wales gem, stalls heaving with artisan cheeses, bara brith, and cockles straight from the shell. Bargain hunters’ heaven! I loaded up on smoked mackerel and homemade chutneys, dreaming of a feast. Back at the apartment, my attempt at a full Welsh breakfast went hilariously wrong – black pudding everywhere because I got carried away with the hob. Laughing it off over burnt toast, we reflected on how these daft moments make holidays, don’t they? No five-star perfection, just us muddling through, tasting the place properly.

Evenings meant pubs, naturally. The Prince of Wales down the road did the best fish and chips – crispy batter, mushy peas on point, with a pint of Brains to wash it down. Another night, we hit Cadwaladers for their legendary hot chocolate (with marshmallows the size of golf balls) and shared a massive seafood platter piled with prawns and scallops. One rainy afternoon, we braved the Ship Inn for lamb cawl – hearty, soul-warming stew that hit the spot while the stove flickered away back home.

Cooking became our thing: one triumph was seared local scallops with garlic butter, another flop was my “gourmet” rarebit that slid off the toast like a landslide. But wandering amenities for ingredients – the butchers’ sausages, the bakery’s fresh bread – kept it exciting. Pub crawls filled gaps, like the Fisherman’s Arms with its Sunday roasts, juicy and generous.

By week’s end, stuffed and content, I realised it’s these food-focused days – markets, mishap meals, pub grub – that make Criccieth magic. Proper home-from-home, with a side of indulgence. Can’t wait to go back.