I’ll never forget the drive up to Kinmel Bay last month – rain lashing the windscreen like it had a personal grudge, and then, just past Colwyn Bay, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us down a narrow lane that dead-ended at a sheep field. Typical me, hadn’t checked the signal properly. We laughed it off, doubled back, and finally rolled into Golden Sands resort as the clouds parted, giving us this cheeky glimpse of sun over the dunes. Heart lifted instantly – the place buzzed with that proper seaside energy, and spotting our luxury modern two-bedroom caravan nestled among the others, all sleek lines and big windows, I was buzzing already. Promised myself this holiday would be all about chilling with good food, no faff.

First morning, we hit the on-site shop for essentials – fresh eggs, bacon rashers thicker than my thumb, and a loaf of bara brith that smelled like heaven. I fancied playing chef in the well-kitted kitchen, so breakfast was my domain: sizzling fry-up with local sausages from the resort’s butcher counter, mushrooms foraged in spirit from the nearby paths (okay, bought ones), and mugs of builder’s tea. Turned out alright, though I nearly set off the smoke alarm juggling the toast. Self-reflection moment: I’m no Gordon Ramsay, but there’s something dead satisfying about cooking on hol, isn’t there? Makes you feel like you’ve earned every bite.

Lunch was a wander to the beachfront kiosks – fish and chips wrapped in yesterday’s paper, flaky cod that melted on the tongue, with mushy peas on the side because why not? We munched on the sand, watching families build epic castles, the salt air making it taste even better. Afternoon snack? Ice cream from the parlour just up from the resort – honeycomb flavour for me, proper thick and creamy, none of that watery rubbish.

Evenings were pub crawl heaven. The local at Towyn, a five-minute stroll away, does the best homemade pies – steak and ale that falls apart with a fork, washed down with a pint of something crisp from a Welsh brewery. We went twice; first night I tried shepherd’s pie, all fluffy mash and rich mince, and the landlady chatted about her nan’s recipe. Back at the caravan, we’d crack open a bottle of red and nibble on cheese from the market stall near Rhyl promenade – sharp cheddar and crumbly caerphilly, paired with crackers and my dodgy attempt at chutney from site-bought plums. Burnt the edges, mind, but we slathered it on anyway, giggling over a card game.

One highlight was the Saturday market in Kinmel Bay village – stalls groaning under fresh veg, Welsh cakes still warm from the griddle, and jars of cockles that we devoured straight from the pot with vinegar and pepper. Picked up lamb chops for a barbecue on the caravan deck; charred them just right over the disposable grill, with buttered new potatoes and a salad that actually looked presentable. Pub number two, closer to the resort, tempted us with Sunday roasts – Yorkshire puds the size of hubcaps, roasties crispy as you like, and gravy that could revive the dead.

Honestly, it was the food that made it – simple, hearty stuff tying us to the place. Left feeling stuffed and sorted, already plotting the next trip for more of the same. Proper tonic for the soul.