I’ll never forget the drive up to Llandudno last month – me behind the wheel of our battered old estate car, crammed with kids, dogs, and enough snacks to feed an army. We’d set off from Cheshire full of beans, dreaming of coastal paths and sea breezes, but about halfway there, disaster struck: a sudden downpour turned the A55 into a snaking river, and we aquaplaned right into a puddle the size of Lake Windermere. Heart in my mouth, I pulled over, everyone giggling nervously while I mopped the windscreen with a soggy tea towel. “Welcome to Welsh weather,” I muttered, but honestly, it just ramped up the excitement. By the time we crested the hills and spotted the twinkling lights of Llandudno below, I was buzzing – this was going to be our perfect family bolt-hole.

Pulling up to the place, my jaw dropped. It’s this grand Victorian pile, all elegant lines and welcoming glow, with seven bedrooms spread over three floors – plenty of space for our rowdy lot without anyone needing to share a wall. Ground floor’s got a massive king-size room right there for easy access, plus a smart kitchen-diner that screamed “cook up a storm” and two cosy sitting rooms for collapsing into after a day out. Upstairs, the en-suites are a godsend – walk-in showers, heated towel rails, the works. And that private garden with the hot tub? Pure bliss, especially after a soggy hike.

First morning, the sun was out, painting the bay like a postcard, so we laced up and headed straight for the Great Orme – that hulking headland you can’t miss from Llandudno’s promenade. It’s a cracker of a walk: puffing up the zigzag path from the West Shore, lungs burning but views unfolding like a reward – Irish Sea crashing below, wild goats scampering about. We picnicked at the top, kids whooping as kites soared overhead. Felt like we’d conquered Everest, me striding ahead like some intrepid explorer (in reality, I was just trying not to trip over my own feet).

But oh, the weather – that great British leveller. Next day, it flipped: grey skies, wind howling off the Conway estuary like it had a personal grudge. Our plan for the full Orme tramway circuit? Scrubbed. Instead, we pivoted to the town’s pier, dodging the rain in arcades, then a brisk yomp along the North Shore promenade when the clouds cracked a smile. Laughing at ourselves, drenched but daft, slurping chips from a paper cone. “This is holidays,” I said, wiping vinegar from my chin. Later, as the drizzle returned, we retreated to the garden hot tub – steaming away the chill, bubbles fizzing while the world turned misty. Magic.

By midweek, I was reflecting over tea in the dining room: we’d clocked miles of coastal paths, from Happy Valley’s lush slopes (sunny bliss, gorse blooming yellow) to bodged attempts at the Little Orme when hail pelted down mid-stride. Those weather whiplash moments? They made it. No Instagram perfection, just us – soggy socks, rosy cheeks, forging memories that stick. North Wales walks don’t mess about; they test you, thrill you, then wrap you in that hot tub glow. We left fitter, closer, and already plotting the return. Proper tonic for the soul.