We'd barely made it off the A55 when the satnav decided to send us down a lane so narrow I had to fold the wing mirrors in just to squeeze through. By the time we pulled up outside Highgate, a smart little stone cottage tucked behind the dunes near Llandudno, I was convinced the satnav had been having a laugh at our expense. The front door key was supposed to be in a lockbox by the gate, but of course it wasn't, so there we were, suitcases in the rain, trying to look casual while peering through the letterbox.

A woman in a bright yellow anorak appeared from the neighbouring garden with a Jack Russell at her heels. "Lost something, have you?" she called, and before I could answer she'd produced the key from her own pocket. "Landlord asked me to pop it in mine last week, said the box was playing up. I'm Brenda, by the way. You'll be wanting milk and bread too, I expect." She bustled off and returned five minutes later with both, refusing any payment and instead launching into a story about the time the same cottage had been rented by a man who tried to barbecue on the beach in February.

We got chatting properly over a cuppa on the little patio that evening. Brenda's husband, Gwyn, wandered over with a fishing rod over his shoulder and a tale about the mackerel he'd caught that morning. He insisted we try one for breakfast and spent ten minutes explaining exactly how he'd cooked his last catch on a camping stove behind the dunes. Their daughter, who runs the little café on the front, popped by later with a slice of bara brith "just in case you hadn't brought anything sweet." By the time the light started to fade, I'd learned more about the tides, the best bench for watching the sunset, and which dog always steals the beach balls than I had in the previous three holidays put together.

What struck me most was how quickly everyone seemed to know we were new. The chap who runs the kiosk by the car park waved as though he'd seen us before, and the woman walking her spaniel stopped to ask if we'd found the hot-water switch yet. It felt less like being tourists and more like being gently adopted for the weekend. Sitting there with a mug of tea going cold in my hands, I realised I'd spent so long planning the perfect break that I'd forgotten how much the place itself would shape it. The mishap with the key, the unexpected neighbours, the conversations that stretched from one cuppa to the next; none of it was on the itinerary, but it was already the bit I'd remember longest.