I’ll never forget the drive to our little holiday cabin near Blaenau Ffestiniog – we’d packed the car with enough cheese and crackers to feed a small army, only for the satnav to chuck us down a narrow lane that turned into a muddy quagmire after a sneaky shower. There I was, white-knuckling the wheel while my mate Dave yelled, “Reverse! Reverse!” like we were in a bad episode of Top Gear. We made it, though, with just a splatter of North Wales mud on the tyres and our spirits high from the anticipation of a proper getaway.

Pulling up to the cabin, my heart did a little flip – it was this cosy wooden retreat tucked into the hillside, all welcoming with its pitched roof and those big windows promising views over the rugged valley. First impressions? Spot on. We dumped the bags and cracked open a couple of local ales we’d nabbed from a petrol station en route, toasting to no more city hustle.

Right from the off, it was all about the food. That first evening, we pottered into the kitchen – decent setup with everything you need – and I fancied myself as a master chef with some Welsh lamb chops I’d picked up from the butcher in Blaenau. Marinated them in garlic and rosemary (snagged fresh from a market stall that morning), chucked them under the grill, and... well, let’s just say they were more charcoal than chop. Dave heroically salvaged them with a dollop of minted yogurt, and we laughed it off over a bottle of red, vowing to do better tomorrow. Proper bonding moment, that – me reflecting on how I’m brilliant at eating, rubbish at cooking, but it doesn’t half make for good stories.

Next day, we hit the local market in town, just a short hop away. Blimey, what a feast for the eyes – stalls groaning under bara brith, fresh leeks the size of my forearm, and cheeses that could make you weak at the knees. I loaded up on smoked mackerel, crusty bread, and a slab of caerphilly that was tangy enough to wake the dead. Back at the cabin, we managed a half-decent picnic lunch on the deck, watching the clouds scud over the hills, with the mackerel flaking perfectly onto sourdough. Felt dead luxurious, that did.

Evenings were pub time, naturally. The local in Blaenau was a gem – low-beamed (sorry, habit), with a fire roaring and punters swapping tales of the mines. We demolished plates of cawl, that hearty lamb stew with veg that sticks to your ribs, followed by pints of Brains or whatever cask ale was on. One night, I tried my hand at cabin cooking again: seafood chowder with market prawns and cream. Came out lumpy but lush, especially with Dave’s “chef’s kiss” of Tabasco. Sat by the wood burner, slurping it down, chatting rubbish till late.

Honestly, it was the simplest joys that stuck – those market hauls turning into messy, marvellous meals, the pub grub that tasted of home, and realising I don’t need fancy restaurants when a cabin kitchen and a bit of Welsh produce do the trick. Left us fitter from all the walking off the feasts, and already plotting the next one. If you’re after a food-focused escape in Snowdonia, this is your spot.