I’ll never forget the drive up to our holiday spot in Snowdonia – or Eryri, as the locals rightly call it. We’d piled into the car from Cheshire, kids in the back bickering over crisps, when about halfway there, the sat-nav decided to have a midlife crisis. It kept rerouting us down these tiny lanes that looked more like sheep tracks, and just as we were convinced we’d end up in a bog, we spotted a bloke in wellies waving us down. Turned out he was fixing a fence, and with a grin wider than the valley, he pointed us the right way, chuckling, “You lot from England? Follow the sheep – they know best!” We laughed all the way up that winding driveway, anticipation bubbling as the sea and mountains came into view. What a first impression – elevated over Harlech, uninterrupted panoramas of the championship golf course and those brooding peaks. The place was spot on: luxurious and contemporary with a nod to its period charm, perfect for us, the other half, two sprogs, and our daft Labrador.

No sooner had we unpacked than we met Dewi, the neighbour down the lane. He’s this wiry chap in his seventies, with a face like wrinkled parchment and stories for days. Popped over with a tray of bara brith – that’s Welsh fruit cake, moist as you like – insisting we try it with his homemade damson jam. “Bachgen,” he said, slapping me on the back (calling me ‘boy’ even though I’m pushing 45), “you’ve got the best seat in Gwynedd here. Seen storms roll in from the Irish Sea that’d make your hair curl!” We spent the first evening on the terrace, him regaling us with tales of smuggling brandy across the dunes back in the day, eyes twinkling like he half-believed his own yarns. The kids were hooked, forgetting their iPads for once.

Next morning, we wandered down to Harlech beach, dog in tow, and bumped into Eleri at the little ice cream kiosk by the dunes. She’s the epitome of quirky local – purple wellies, a hat festooned with feathers, and a laugh that echoes off the castle walls. “Fancy a 99 with a flake?” she asked, before launching into how her gran used to row out to meet fishing boats for fresh mackerel. We got chatting about the golf course views from our spot – she’s a caddy there sometimes – and swore us to secrecy on her “secret” recipe for cockles with vinegar and pepper, straight from the bay. “Don’t tell the tourists up the road,” she winked. “They pay a fortune for ’em posh-like.”

Later, hiking up to the castle – all 13th-century grandeur looming over the town – we fell in with a group led by grizzled old Gwilym, out walking his border collies. He’s got that farmer’s twang, pausing every few steps to point out buzzards wheeling over the Mawddach estuary. “See that? Better than Netflix,” he quipped, sharing how he once herded sheep right through the castle gates during a snowstorm. The kids tried mimicking his whistle – hopeless, but hilarious – and he didn’t bat an eyelid when our pup joined the pack.

It got me reflecting, sat there that last evening with a cuppa, gazing at the sun dipping behind the mountains. In the rush of life back home, you forget how a natter with proper characters like these recharges the soul. No agendas, just warmth and wit. We left with full bellies, fuller hearts, and a promise to return – Dewi’s already texting about next year’s lambing season. Snowdonia’s magic isn’t just the views; it’s the folk who make it sing.