I’ll never forget the drive up to Malltraeth – we took the A55 from Bangor, windows down, singing along to some dodgy 90s playlist, when suddenly the satnav decided to have a midlife crisis and sent us down a narrow lane that was basically a sheep’s personal catwalk. There we were, inching past a flock that looked at us like we’d gatecrashed their family reunion, and I’m panicking about scraping the wing mirrors. Half an hour later, we emerged, a bit frazzled but laughing, right on the doorstep of this stunning former chapel turned contemporary holiday home. First impressions? Blown away. The enclosed front garden was like a little secret haven, with views stretching out to those distant Snowdonia peaks – Yr Wyddfa looming like an old friend saying hello. I could already picture us cosying up on that corner sofa by the woodburning stove, telly on low.

But honestly, what made the whole trip weren’t the views – gorgeous as they were – it was the quirky locals we bumped into. First up was Dai, the chap walking his lurcher along the Malltraeth Cob path, just a stone’s throw from the front door. We’d barely unpacked when we headed out for a leg-stretch on that scenic route – it’s this reclaimed marshland trail buzzing with wildlife, perfect for birdwatchers like my mate who dragged us along. Dai spots us peering at some reed beds and ambles over, all wiry beard and twinkling eyes. “Ospreys been fishing here all week, bach,” he says, pointing out a flash of wings we’d have missed. Turned out he’s lived here 40 years, knows every curlew call by name. We chatted for ages about the cob’s history – how it tamed the marshes back in the day – and he reckoned the best chips on Anglesey are from the van by the bridge. We tested that theory later; he wasn’t wrong.

Then there was Mrs Evans from the village shop, a tiny place stacked with enough Welsh cakes to sink a ship. I popped in for milk and ended up with a full rundown on her prize-winning leeks from the Bodorgan show – “Grew ’em meself, see, with a bit of seaweed tea.” She’s got this deadpan humour, insisting we try her homemade bara brith, which we did, still warm. “Don’t tell the husband,” she winked, “he thinks I bought it.” Over tea the next day, she regaled us with tales of the local ghost – some fisherman who haunts the cob on misty nights. Pure gold, and it had the kids wide-eyed around the stove that evening.

Even the postman, Gwyn, chipped in while delivering a forgotten parcel. He’s this cheerful soul on an electric bike, zipping about like he owns the lanes. “Stay clear of the high tide on the cob,” he warned with a grin, “or you’ll be swimming with the seals.” We heeded that, sticking to gentle rambles where we spotted otters playing and egrets strutting like divas.

Looking back, sat there with a cuppa watching the sun dip behind the mountains, I realised I’d been so caught up in city hustle that I’d forgotten how chats like these recharge the soul. No grand adventures needed – just proper characters and their stories, making a simple countryside break feel like coming home. We’re already plotting a return.