I finally made it to Anglesey after a bit of a faff on the A55 – nothing major, just a cheeky diversion sign that had me looping round a roundabout twice like a proper numpty, spilling my pasty all over the passenger seat. But hey, three days at Y Cwt in Moelfre was calling, and I wasn't about to let a crumbly steak and ale one ruin the vibe. Pulling up to this cosy little stone cottage tucked into the hillside, I was knackered but buzzing – first impressions? Proper Welsh welcome, with sea views peeking through the hedges and that fresh briny air hitting you like a pint of something cold.

Stepping inside Y Cwt felt like stumbling into a mate's kitchen after a long shift – compact, characterful, with a wood-burner begging for a fire later and a table already set for grub. No faffing with check-in; the key was under the pot plant, classic self-catering style. My plan? Dive straight into Anglesey's food scene, all within a stone's throw of Moelfre. First stop after dumping my bags: the village shop just down the lane. It's one of those brilliant local spots stocked with Welsh cheeses, bara brith, and cockles straight from the bay. I grabbed a slab of crumbly Caerphilly, some smoked mackerel from the Menai Strait, and a loaf of granary that smelled like heaven. Back at the cottage, my "cooking attempt" kicked off – or rather, my heroic fail at pan-fried mackerel with leeks. I'd watched a quick YouTube on the drive (hands-free, officer), but the fish stuck to the pan like it was glued. Still, slathered in butter and with a cheeky squeeze of lemon from the fridge welcome pack, it tasted of the sea. Paired with a tin of Brains from the cupboard, it was pub grub at home. Laughed at myself scraping the pan – who needs MasterChef when you've got a sea view?

Evening called for the real deal: a wander to the Ship Inn, Moelfre's beating heart, not five minutes' stroll away. It's that perfect seaside boozer – low beams, fishing nets on the walls, and punters nursing pints of local Anglesey ale like Felinfoel Double Dragon. I plonked down for fish and chips, the batter crisp as a fresh banknote, cod flaking under the fork, mushy peas on the side because, well, tradition. The chips? Triple-cooked, fat and fluffy, with curry sauce that packed a sneaky kick. Overheard locals nattering about the lobster pots out in the bay, and I couldn't resist ordering a pint of prawns to start – sweet, plump, dipped in mayo. Chatted with the barman about the best spots for crab, all while the sun dipped behind the headland. Back at Y Cwt, stuffed and merry, I cracked open a bottle of Welsh cider from the shop, reflecting gently on how these simple feeds ground you. No Instagram frenzy, just proper nosh reminding me life's too short for rubbish takeaways.

Next morning, breakfast was my redemption arc. Y Cwt's kitchen is a dream for faffers like me – Aga-style cooker humming away. I fried up local bacon from the shop (thick rashers, proper fatty goodness), scrambled eggs with chives, and grilled tomatoes still warm from the veg stall I'd spotted en route. Washed down with builder's tea, gazing out at the lighthouse. Midday hunger hit, so off to the sand-covered benches by the harbour for cockles and laverbread from the fisherman's hut – salty, earthy, a true taste of Ynys Môn. Tried "cooking" again that arvo: a Welsh rarebit with that Caerphilly, under the grill till bubbly. Burnt the edges (story of my life), but on thick toast with chutney, it was sublime. Pub redux at the Ty Croes Arms nearby – lamb shank that fell off the bone, mashed spuds like clouds, gravy rich as sin. Puds? Sticky toffee with clotted cream, because Anglesey does indulgence right.

By day three's brekkie – smoked kippers attempted (success!), my first impressions of Y Cwt were sealed: a foodie's haven where every meal tells the island's tale. Mishaps and all, it's the kind of spot that feeds the soul as much as the belly. Can't wait to go back.