I’ll never forget the drive to Harlech – we took the scenic route along the coast from Porthmadog, windows down, proper summer vibes, until I missed a turn and ended up in a narrow lane with sheep staring at us like we’d gatecrashed their party. A quick reverse manoeuvre (with me apologising profusely to the flock) and we were back on track, hearts racing but laughing about it. As we crested the hill, there it was: this charming cottage, half a mile from Harlech’s centre, all cosy and inviting with its gardens spilling out towards Tremadog Bay. The views hit us like a warm hug – Llyn Peninsula shimmering in the distance. Perfect for us two and the dog, sleeping four across two comfy bedrooms. First impressions? Spot on. I was buzzing to settle in.

No sooner had we unpacked than we wandered into town for a pint at the Castle Inn. That’s where we met Dai, the barman with a beard like a wizard’s and stories for days. “You lot from down south, eh?” he grinned, pulling a perfect pint of local Brains. Turned out Dai’s family had fished these waters for generations, and he regaled us with tales of the time a seal pinched his catch right off the line. “Cheeky bugger waved at me!” We were in stitches, swapping laughs over his conspiracy theory about the castle ghosts plotting against English tourists. Proper character, Dai – made us feel like locals in minutes.

Next morning, garden swing creaking under us with coffees in hand, we bumped into Mrs Evans next door, out tending her veg patch. She’s this tiny dynamo in wellies, 80 if she’s a day, with a voice like a foghorn. “Fancy a butternut? Grown it meself!” she insisted, thrusting one at us before launching into her epic yarn about the 1980s when Harlech’s lifeboat crew rescued a yacht full of posh Italians during a storm. “They sang opera on the beach afterwards – proper racket!” Her eyes twinkled as she mimicked their accents, and I couldn’t stop chuckling. We ended up staying for tea in her sun-trap patio, her chatting non-stop about the quirky Harlech choir that practices sea shanties on the dunes.

A stroll to the beach introduced us to young Tommo, the ice cream seller with a van painted like a pirate ship. He’s mad about surfing Tremadog Bay’s waves and roped us into trying his experimental flavour – laverbread ripple. “Taste of Wales, that is!” he beamed, though I’ll admit it was an acquired one. Tommo’s full of it, too: claims he once paddled out with dolphins who surfed alongside. Whether true or not, his enthusiasm was infectious, and we spent the afternoon chatting breakers and bay legends while the dog chased waves.

Even the evening pub quiz at the Royal Oak brought more gems – like grizzled old Glyn, who swore he’d spotted the Loch Ness Monster on holiday here once (must’ve been the ale). These encounters, these faces with their wild tales and warm welcomes, turned our stay into something magical. Made me reflect a bit, actually – in the rush of life back home, I forget how a chat with a stranger can recharge your soul. Harlech’s folk? Absolute gold. We left with full bellies, fuller hearts, and a promise to return. Can’t wait.