I’ll never forget the drive up to Tal-Y-Bont – we’d loaded the car with enough snacks to feed a small army, but halfway through the A55, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us on a scenic detour through some narrow lanes that had me gripping the wheel like my life depended on it. A classic me-move: forgetting to update the postcode properly. Still, by the time we trundled into the holiday park, the stress melted away. Nestled right in the heart of Eryri, with those moody mountains looming invitingly, our first glimpse of the barn had us grinning like kids at Christmas. It’s this gorgeous detached conversion, reverse-level style so the bedrooms are cosily tucked downstairs and the living area perches upstairs with cracking views. We couldn’t wait to kick off our shoes.

First things first, stomachs rumbling after the faff. The park’s got a little on-site café, but we fancied something proper Welsh, so we nipped over to the Tal-Y-Bont village shop – a proper gem, stocked with local cheeses, bara brith and fresh veg that screamed farm-fresh. I grabbed some smoked mackerel from a Gwynedd supplier and a loaf of that dense, seedy bread they do round here. Back at the barn, with its open oak staircase letting light flood in, we set about cooking our first feast. The kitchen’s a dream – sleek hob, masses of counter space – but my attempt at cawl turned into a watery soup disaster. Too much leek, not enough patience. We laughed it off with mugs of milky tea, vowing to stick to simpler grub next time. Self-reflection moment: I’m brilliant at eating, rubbish at simmering.

Next morning, we wandered five minutes to the local pub, the one with the roaring fire and chalkboard specials. Pint of Brains for him, lime and soda for me (designated driver duties), and oh, the ploughman’s lunch – chunks of mature cheddar from a nearby dairy, pickled onions that packed a punch, and apple chutney that had us moaning in delight. Proper pub nosh, none of that gourmet faff. We chatted with locals about the best spots for crab from nearby shellfishermen; turns out there’s a seasonal stand just up the road by the beach at Dyffryn Ardudwy, where they sell the freshest straight off the boat. We stocked up that afternoon – buttery, sweet, and gone in minutes smeared on crusty rolls.

Evenings were for experimenting in the barn’s kitchen. One night, I nailed Welsh rarebit with Caerphilly from the market stall we found in Barmouth (a quick hop away), bubbling under the grill till gooey perfection, served with doorstep toast and a side of salt marsh lamb chops from the park’s farm shop. The kids hoovered it up, declaring it better than McDonald’s. Another day, we hit the park’s clubhouse for fish and chips – golden, greasy, wrapped in paper – washed down with ginger beer. My cooking highlight? A slapdash seafood stew using our crab haul, chucked in with potatoes and cream. Turned out lush, surprisingly.

Honestly, this holiday was all about the food – those hearty, no-nonsense meals that stick to your ribs against the Welsh chill. It made me realise how much joy there is in pottering about a well-kitted kitchen, faffing with local bits and bobs, rather than dining out every night. We left fatter, happier, and already plotting our next feast in Eryri.