I’ll never forget the drive to our holiday spot in Snowdonia – or Eryri, as it’s properly called these days. We’d piled into the car from Manchester, kids in the back bickering over crisps, when halfway through the Conway Valley, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly. It sent us down a narrow lane that turned into a sheep-dodging adventure, complete with a flock blocking the way and a farmer giving us a cheery wave as if this was normal. Twenty minutes late and a bit frazzled, we finally crested the hill to this tucked-away farmhouse retreat, and blimey, what a first impression. Perched on a private hilltop with those sweeping views over Snowdon’s peaks and right down to Ceredigion Bay, it felt like we’d stumbled into a proper hidden gem. The historic stone farmhouse and its cosy cottage screamed Welsh welcome, with loads of outdoor space for the dog to romp about. I was buzzing already, imagining lazy breakfasts with a view.

But let’s be honest, the real star of our stay was the food – or should I say, our valiant attempts at it amidst Snowdonia’s bounty. First morning, I fancied playing chef with local ingredients. We’d spotted a farm shop just a mile down towards Harlech, stocked with proper Welsh cheeses, plump sausages from nearby butchers, and the freshest eggs you could imagine. I whipped up a full Welsh breakfast – laverbread, cockles from the bay, bacon sizzling away – but in my enthusiasm, I overdid the black pudding and it came out a tad cremated. The family politely munched through it, stifling laughs, and we washed it down with strong tea while watching the mist lift off the hills. Gentle self-reflection moment: I’m no Jamie Oliver, but there’s something therapeutic about faffing in a holiday kitchen, isn’t there? Makes you appreciate the simple things.

Afternoons meant wandering into Harlech, only 1.5 miles away, for proper pub grub. The Royal St David’s Golf Club is practically on the doorstep at three miles, but we stuck closer to the castle and beach for a pint at the Castle Cottage Inn. Their fish and chips, battered with local catch from Ceredigion Bay, were spot on – crispy, flaky, with mushy peas that hit the spot after a brisk coastal walk. We shared stories with locals about the best spots for crab sandwiches on the sandy beaches. Evenings back at the property turned into feast central. One night, I tried my hand at cawl, that hearty lamb stew, using veg from a nearby market stall we’d hit up – leeks the size of my arm, carrots still dusted with soil. It bubbled away on the Aga-like cooker, filling the place with that comforting aroma, though I’ll admit the dumplings were more like torpedoes than fluffy clouds. Paired with a bottle of Brân red from a Gwynedd vineyard, it was bliss, especially with the dog snoozing by the fire.

We popped to Portmeirion just eight miles up the coast for a fancy lunch at their Italianate cafe – gelato and wood-fired pizzas overlooking the gardens – but nothing beat cooking with what we’d gathered. Markets in Harlech had us loading up on bara brith and artisan breads, and one rainy afternoon, we even baked Welsh cakes on the griddle, getting flour everywhere and giggling like kids. It was all about sinking into that mountain rhythm: foraging for flavours, pub-hopping lightly, and realising that the best holidays are the ones where you eat like kings without leaving the hills. If you’re after a spot to reconnect over a cracking meal, this is it – we’re already plotting a return.