I’ll never forget the drive up to Snowdonia – we’d packed the car with enough cheese, bread and wine to feed a small army, only for the sat-nav to chuck us down a narrow lane that turned into a muddy quagmire just outside Llanrwst. There I was, swearing under my breath (well, quietly to myself), reversing into a hedge while the kids laughed from the back seat. But honestly, that little mishap only ramped up the anticipation. As we finally emerged, the village unfolded before us like a postcard: the River Conway sparkling where it meets those three tributaries from the west, mountains looming invitingly. Spotting our sub-medieval holiday cottage – all period character with those massive wooden doors and quirky low doorways that had me stooping like a hobbit – I knew we’d struck gold. Nestled in 200 acres of organic regenerative farmland, it felt like stepping into a cosy storybook.

First impressions? Pure magic. The place screamed character, with wooden panelling that made every room feel like a warm hug. We dumped the bags and cracked open a bottle of local cider straight away, toasting our arrival. But let’s be real, the real star of this trip was the food – or rather, our gleeful assault on it. Llanrwst’s got this brilliant vibe as the principal village in Snowdonia National Park, buzzing with craft shops and galleries, but we were here for the eats. That first evening, we wandered the 15-minute path to The White Horse Inn, a proper gem of a pub. I went for the slow-cooked lamb shank with mash that melted in your mouth, paired with a pint of Conway Brewery’s Welsh Pride – crisp, malty, perfect. The missus had the fish and chips, golden and fluffy, and we demolished a sticky toffee pudding that was basically a hug in dessert form. Sat by the fire, listening to locals natter about the day’s hikes, it was bliss.

Next morning, we hit the local market in the village square – fresh organic veg from the farm itself, artisan cheeses that could make you weep, and loaves of bara brith so dense with fruit you could use them as doorstops. I fancied myself a chef back at the cottage, so I rustled up a full Welsh breakfast: cockles from a nearby stall (proper salty seaside vibes), laverbread (which I butchered the pronunciation of), bacon from the farm pigs, and eggs so fresh they practically clucked. It was a triumph, though I’ll admit my attempt at cawl – that hearty lamb stew – ended up more soup than stew after I got distracted by the kids demanding seconds. Laughing over the gloopy mess, I had one of those gentle moments of reflection: holidays like this remind you life’s too short for perfect recipes; it’s the shared chaos that sticks.

Evenings blurred into pub crawls and feasts. Another night at The White Horse for their roast – beef carved tableside, Yorkshire puds the size of hubcaps, gravy like nectar. We tried fishing in the river pools for trout (caught nowt, but the picnic of smoked salmon sarnies we packed made up for it), then rewarded ourselves with cream teas from a craft shop bakery, scones still warm with clotted cream thicker than my accent. One rainy afternoon, we kayaked gently up the Conway, stopping for a flask of soup I’d made from market leeks – surprisingly decent, if I say so myself.

By the end of the week, bellies full and hearts content, we’d barely scratched the surface of Snowdonia’s trails, but who needs summits when the grub’s this good? This spot’s a year-round winner for mates or family – active days, lazy feasts. We’re already plotting a return for the autumn harvest markets.