I’ll never forget the drive up to our holiday spot in North Wales – we’d packed the car with enough snacks to feed a small army, but halfway there, just past Wrexham, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us down a narrow lane that looked more like a sheep’s personal runway. Mud everywhere, and me panicking about getting stuck while my other half laughed it off with a cuppa from the thermos. Still, by the time we rolled up, the anticipation had me buzzing – those rolling hills and distant mountain views had us grinning like kids at Christmas.

First impressions? Blimey, what a treat. It’s this cracking barn conversion on a working farm near Bryneglwys, just a stone’s throw from Llangollen, with proper wow-factor vistas across to the Berwyn Mountains and Vale of Clwyd. We stepped inside to a massive sitting room with a huge telly and a cosy electric fire that had us dumping the bags and cracking open a bottle straight away. The hot tub out back was calling our name, but food was top of mind – we’d promised ourselves a proper feast fest this trip.

That first evening, we fired up the barbie as the sun dipped low. I’d fancied myself a bit of a chef, marinating some local lamb chops we’d nabbed from a farm shop en route (honestly, the smell of that rosemary was divine). They turned out alright, if a tad charred on one side – gentle self-reflection here: I’m more of a taster than a master, but slathered in mint sauce, they went down a treat with jacket spuds and a crisp salad. We washed it down with a cheeky Welsh cider, bubbling away in the hot tub under the stars. Pure bliss.

Next day, we pottered over to Llangollen’s market – it’s only a quick drive, and what a gem. Stalls heaving with fresh veg, artisan cheeses, and those massive Welsh cakes that are basically fried dough heaven. I loaded up on leeks (because, cliché or not, they’re spot on for a fry-up), some smoked bacon from a local butcher, and a wedge of caerphilly that could’ve doubled as a doorstop. Back at the barn, I attempted cawl – that hearty lamb stew with chunks of veg. Mine wasn’t quite like Nan’s, a bit thin if I’m honest, but simmered low on the hob while we lounged by the fire, it hit the spot with crusty bread. Laugh-out-loud moment: the other half reckoned it tasted like “rustic boot soup,” but he scoffed seconds anyway.

Evenings were for the pubs. The Plum in nearby Llangollen became our local – proper ale house with beams (well, you know the vibe) and the best fish and chips this side of the Dee. Golden batter, mushy peas, and a pint of Brains Bitter that slid down effortlessly. One night, we tried the roast at the Corn Mill, just down the road – massive Yorkshire puds, succulent beef from nearby farms, and gravy so rich I nearly licked the plate. We staggered back giggling, vowing to walk it off the next day.

Our last supper was a team effort: I handled the pud (shop-bought bara brith, cheating but lush), while they grilled sausages from the market. Sat there with full bellies, gazing at the mountains, I couldn’t help but reflect – holidays like this remind you life’s too short for rubbish ready meals. North Wales does comfort food like nowhere else, and this spot? It’s our new annual pilgrimage.