I’ll never forget the drive up to Mynytho – rain lashing the windscreen like it had a personal grudge, and then, just past Pwllheli, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us down a narrow lane that dead-ended at a sheep-dotted field. “Typical,” I muttered to my mate Dave, who was white-knuckling the passenger seat. We laughed it off, doubled back, and 20 minutes later, there we were, pulling up to this cracking three-bed holiday home with those jaw-dropping 180-degree sea views. St Tudwals Islands bang in front, Porth Neigwl peeking to the right, and Eryri’s peaks hazy across the water. First impressions? Pure magic. I felt that proper holiday buzz kick in, like the world had shrunk to just us, the waves, and a promise of proper relaxation.

We’d barely unpacked when the quirky locals started weaving into our stay, turning what could’ve been a quiet week into a right laugh. First up was Gareth, the chap who runs the little farm gate down the lane selling eggs and spuds. He’s got this wild beard that looks like it’s been styled by the wind off Hell’s Mouth beach, and he greeted us with a cheery “Bachgen! You’ve picked the best spot – mind the seals, they’re nosier than my missus!” We ended up chatting for half an hour about his pet lamb that thinks it’s a dog, and how the tides here play tricks on fishermen. Bought a dozen eggs just to keep him going, and his tales had us in stitches before we’d even cracked open a beer.

Then there was Mrs Evans from the post office in Llanengan, a stone’s throw away. Tiny woman with eyes like a hawk and a laugh that echoes. Dropped in for milk and postcards, and she clocked our accents straight off: “English, eh? Don’t worry, we’ll Welsh-ify you by Friday!” She regaled us with stories of the old smuggling days around Abersoch, winking about hidden coves where contraband once washed up. Her nephew, she said, still swears he saw a mermaid off Porth Neigwl – “Probably a seal with indigestion,” Dave quipped, and she roared. Those chats made the short drives to the beach feel like events in themselves.

Out on the headland path, we bumped into Tommy, the retired fisherman with a pipe and a dog called Salty that nips at gulls. He was casting lines and shared his thermos of tea, spinning yarns about storms that “nearly blew the islands clean away.” “You lot from down south?” he grinned. “Up here, the sea’s the boss – teaches humility.” We walked back buzzing from his wisdom, spotting porpoises in the bay as if on cue.

Reflecting on it now, amid all the craic, I realised how those encounters grounded me. In the rush of life back home, you forget the joy of proper natter with folk who know every inch of their patch. No agendas, just stories and a shared love for this rugged coast. We’d fire up the barbie on the terrace each evening, views glowing golden, toasting the characters who made our week. If you’re after a North Wales escape that’s more than sandcastles, this is it – locals included, free of charge. Can’t wait to go back.