I’ll never forget the drive up to our little holiday spot in Snowdonia – or rather, the comedy of errors that got us there. We’d piled into the car in Manchester, full of beans after a fry-up breakfast, with me navigating via a dodgy phone signal. Halfway through the winding lanes near Dolgellau, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us down what felt like a sheep track masquerading as a road. Bumping along, branches scraping the roof, I was convinced we’d end up in someone’s farmyard. But then, just as I was about to suggest turning back for a Travelodge, the rugged track opened up to this elevated bungalow perched like a dream, with coastal views stretching out over Rhoslefain. Heart lifted, we parked in the two off-road spots and stepped onto that private decked area wrapping round the place. First impressions? Pure magic – the sea shimmering in the distance, Eryri’s hills cradling it all. I could already feel the tension melting away.

It was one of those stays where the joy was in doing precisely nothing, and boy, did we lean into it. No grand hikes or packed itineraries; just lazy cottage days that made you forget the rat race back home. The open-plan living space inside was spot on for that – cosy, contemporary, with everything you need for self-catering without any faff. I’d rustle up a simple brekkie of toast and Marmite, then we’d spill out onto the deck with mugs of tea, watching gulls wheel over the beach just a short stroll away. The elevated spot meant those breathtaking surroundings were ours for the gazing – misty mornings where the sea met the mountains, turning gold at sunset. Perfect for slowing right down.

Mornings blurred into afternoons of pure loafing in the garden area. I’d flop into a chair with a dog-eared paperback – some trashy crime novel I’d been saving – while the kids (well, young adults now, but still) fiddled with a pack of cards or skimmed stones down by the shore. We’d wander that little bit to the beach, maybe a 10-minute jaunt, pick up driftwood, and head back for lunch. Cheese ploughman’s on the deck, naturally, with the breeze keeping things fresh. One afternoon, I caught myself just staring at a cloud drifting by, thinking, ‘Blimey, when did I last switch off like this?’ It was that gentle nudge of self-reflection – life’s too short not to savour these pockets of peace. No need for epic adventures when the view from the sofa was this good.

Evenings were for unwinding proper: a slow-cooked stew bubbling away, telly on low for a bit of Strictly reruns, then early nights with the sound of waves in the background. We did pop down to Llwyngwril once, just three miles away, for milk and a mooch round the village shop – chatting with the locals about the weather, as you do. But mostly, it was us, the bungalow, and the art of pottering. A mate back home asked what we got up to; I said, ‘Nowt much, and it was brilliant.’ That’s Snowdonia for you – a reminder that sometimes the best holiday is the one where you barely move. We left feeling recharged, already plotting a return to our elevated idyll.