I’ll never forget the drive up to our holiday spot near Caernarfon – rain lashing the windscreen like it had a personal grudge, and then, just past Bangor, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us down a muddy farm track that had me white-knuckling the wheel. “This can’t be right,” I muttered to my mate Dave, who was already rummaging for signal on his phone. Twenty minutes of reversing around sheep later, we finally spotted the turning for Groeslon, hearts racing with that mix of relief and “what have we got ourselves into?” buzz.

Pulling up to the place – a cracking converted outbuilding tucked on the edge of a working farm, attached to the owners’ house but with its own cosy vibe – we were gobsmacked by the views. Rolling countryside stretching out one way, a glimpse of the sea the other, all under skies finally cracking open with a bit of blue. It’s one of those upside-down layouts, bedrooms downstairs including a swish master with en-suite, and the open-plan living kitchen up top – perfect for us lot to sprawl out without tripping over each other.

No sooner had we dumped the bags than we met Huw, the owner, pottering about in wellies with his border collie, Meg, at heel. Proper character, Huw – wiry as a whippet, with a beard like a Brillo pad and stories spilling out faster than tea from a pot. “You picked a grand day for it, bach,” he grinned, despite the earlier downpour. Over a brew in his kitchen (we got roped in, naturally), he regaled us with tales of the local eisteddfod, how his grandad once won the chair for poetry about a runaway cow. Laughed till my sides ached, especially when he confessed he’d tried entering last year but got disqualified for rhyming “tractor” with “factor”. Proper North Walian humour – dry as a crisp packet.

Next morning, we wandered into Groeslon’s little shop for milk and papers, and there was Mrs Evans behind the counter, all five foot nothing but with opinions taller than Snowdon. “You staying at Huw’s place? Watch out for his scones – like rubber doorstops!” she cackled, pressing free bara brith on us anyway. Chatted about her nephew who’s a fisherman out of Caernarfon, dodging seals and storms, and how the village fete’s coming up with its infamous tug-of-war over the river. By the time we left, she’d named half the locals and warned us off the pub’s “infamous” lamb curry.

That evening, down at the castle in Caernarfon – a quick five-mile hop – we bumped into Dai the guide, mid-tour, who ditched his script to yarn about Prince Charles’s investiture (he was there as a lad, nicking cream buns from the banquet). Back at the cottage, we cracked open tins and swapped the day’s daft encounters, with the sea twinkling below. Made me pause for a sec, staring out that window – rushing about back home, you forget how a yarn with quirky folk like these recharges the batteries better than any spa day.

Over the week, it was more of the same: the postman with his conspiracy theories on why the Menai Bridge never freezes; old Tom from the farm next door, teaching the kids Welsh phrases over fence chats. No grand adventures needed – just brilliant characters turning a simple holiday into gold. If you’re after proper Welsh warmth, you can’t beat it.