I’ll never forget the drive to Tremadog – that narrow, twisting road from Porthmadog had me white-knuckling the steering wheel after our sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us down what felt like a sheep track. We ended up in a muddy layby, laughing our heads off as a farmer gave us a cheery wave and pointed us the right way. But honestly, that little mishap was the perfect teaser; by the time we pulled up to our ground-floor apartment in the heart of the village, my heart was racing with anticipation. Stepping inside, we were hit with those first brilliant impressions – cosy as anything, with two comfy bedrooms for me and my mates, a cracking kitchen that screamed ‘cook-up-something-epic’, and that electric flame-effect stove just begging us to flop down and unwind.

Tremadog itself felt like a secret straight away, all quaint village vibes on the edge of Snowdonia National Park, with Cardigan Bay beaches just a stone’s throw. We weren’t here for the obvious tourist traps; nah, we wanted those hidden gems you only find by getting properly lost. First morning, we wandered off without a plan, aiming for a quick coastal stroll but veering into the back lanes behind the village. That’s when we stumbled on this tucked-away spot – a wildflower meadow hugging a babbling brook, right where the park’s foothills start. No signs, no crowds, just us picnicking on cheese rolls from the local bakery, watching buzzards circle overhead. I sat there thinking, ‘Blimey, when did I last switch off like this?’ Proper moment of reflection, realising how glued I am to my phone back home.

Next day, we proper embraced the getting-lost ethos. Parked up near the harbour – Black Rock Sands is literally minutes away, that massive expanse of beach where you can walk for miles – but instead of the main path, we took a wrong turn into the dunes. Ended up in this sheltered cove that wasn’t on any map I’d seen, waves lapping at our feet, seals popping up like cheeky locals saying hello. We spent hours beachcombing for weird shells and driftwood, the kind of daft fun that turns mates into proper legends. Light was fading when we finally looped back, windswept and starving.

Evenings were bliss in the apartment – chef of the group (guilty as charged, though my spag bol is more enthusiasm than expertise) rustled up feasts at that fully-equipped setup, then we’d gather round the dining table, toasting with local Welsh cider to our accidental adventures. One night, we got lost again on a whim, following a footpath from the village edge that led to a forgotten quarry trail – all overgrown brambles and panoramic views over the bay at dusk. Felt like we’d uncovered a pirate’s hideout, complete with echoes bouncing off the rocks. Hilarious when I tripped over a root and ended up covered in mud; the lads still rib me about it.

Staying put in Tremadog taught me that the best holidays aren’t planned to death – they’re about those off-the-beaten-track surprises that sneak up when you let the path fade. If you’re after Snowdonia’s wild heart without the hordes, get yourself lost here. You won’t regret it.