I’ll never forget the drive to our little holiday cabin in Blaenau Ffestiniog – we took a wrong turn just past Betws-y-Coed, ending up on some narrow lane that had me gripping the steering wheel like it was a lifeline. Rain was lashing down, the satnav was having a right paddy, and my other half was munching crisps like it was the end times. But once we sorted ourselves out and crested that hill into Snowdonia proper, the anticipation kicked in proper – those misty mountains unfolding like a proper Welsh welcome, promising cosy nights and cracking grub ahead.

Pulling up to the cabin, my first impressions were spot on: a snug, modern hideaway tucked into the hillside, all warm lights glowing against the slate-grey sky. It felt like our own private bolthole, perfect for rustling up feasts without the faff of a big hotel. We dumped the bags and cracked open a bottle of local Gwynt y Ddraig cider I’d nabbed from a service station – sharp and fizzy, just the ticket after that faffed journey.

First morning, we mooched down to the village for supplies. Blaenau’s got this brilliant little market vibe on weekends, with stalls heaving with fresh Welsh veg – fat leeks, earthy spuds, and cheeses that could make you weep. I loaded up on bara brith from a baker who swore it was his nan’s recipe, all fruity and squidgy. Back at the cabin, my cooking attempt was a laugh: I tried doing cawl in the compact kitchen, chucking in lamb neck from the butcher’s and those market carrots. It bubbled away merrily, but I overseasoned it with too much thyme – tasted like a herb garden exploded, but we scoffed it with hunks of Caerphilly anyway, laughing over mugs of builder’s tea.

Evenings were for the pubs, and oh, they didn’t disappoint. The local just down the road – you know the one, with the roaring fire and slate floors – does a mean plate of faggots and peas, gravy so rich it sticks to your ribs. We went twice: first night, I had the lamb shank that fell off the bone, paired with a pint of Conway Welsh Pride. Proper comforting after a damp tramp along the nearby paths. Second time, we shared a seafood platter – mussels from the coast, plump and garlicky – washed down with Brains SA. The barman chatted about his fishing trips, recommending we hit the chippy next day for battered cod that’s legendary round here.

One afternoon, I had a proper go at cooking again, inspired by a market haul of smoked mackerel and tatties. Pan-fried with butter and parsley, served with cockles in vinegar from a jar – simple, but it hit the spot on the cabin’s wee patio, mountains looming as backdrop. Mind you, I burned the edges; always the same with me. Sat there picking at it, I had a quiet moment thinking how these daft kitchen disasters make holidays real – no posh restaurants, just us, good nosh, and that satisfied belly feeling.

We wrapped up with a final pub lunch at another cosy spot nearby: rarebit bubbling under the grill, oozing cheddar onto doorstep toast, with a side of pickled onions that zinged. Left feeling stuffed and happy, already plotting the next trip for more of that Snowdonian food magic. If you’re after a break built around brilliant eats, this is the spot.