I’ll never forget the drive to Fir Cottages in Llandudno – or rather, the comedy of errors that got me there. I’d set off from Manchester bright and early, sat-nav primed, only for the cheeky thing to lead me straight into a flock of sheep blocking the A55. There I was, honking gently like a proper tourist, while the farmer ambled over with a grin and a “No rush, love – they’re on their tea break.” Twenty minutes later, I was back on track, chuckling at my city slicker self, and pulling up to this gem of a cottage tucked away in Llanrwst, just a hop from Llandudno’s buzz.

Fir Cottages hit me like a warm hug the moment I stepped inside. It’s one of those proper Welsh stone-built beauties, all cosy nooks and low beams that make you duck if you’re over six foot – which I’m not, thank goodness, or I’d have a permanent forehead bruise. The owners had left fresh scones and clotted cream on the kitchen table, with a note saying “Croeso!” (welcome, for us non-Welsh folk). First impressions? Bliss. The garden backed onto a babbling brook, and from the patio, you could hear the Conwy Valley whispering secrets. I dumped my bags, brewed a cuppa, and thought, right, this is the spot to ditch the guidebook and get properly lost.

That first afternoon, I wandered out with no plan, just trainers on and a vague notion of “the beach.” Llandudno’s North Shore is famous, all donkey rides and ice creams, but I veered left at the pier instead, stumbling into a hidden cove path that snaked behind the prom. Blimey, what a find! It led to a pebbly stretch called West Shore, dead quiet bar a couple of dog walkers and the waves lapping like they were gossiping. I kicked off my shoes, let the chilly Irish Sea nibble my toes, and unearthed a bit of sea glass smoother than my ex’s excuses. No crowds, no chips frying – just me, the horizon, and that smug feeling of discovering Llandudno’s secret handshake.

By evening, hunger drove me back towards the cottage, but I took a daft wrong turn down a lane marked “Private – No Through Road.” Typical me, but oh, what luck! It spat me out at a tucked-away spot near the Little Orme, where wildflowers carpeted the cliffs and a bench overlooked Bodafon Farm’s rolling fields. I sat there as the sun dipped, painting the sky in that Welsh watercolour pink, munching a pasty I’d grabbed from a no-frills bakery en route. Who needs Michelin stars when you’ve got this? The air smelled of gorse and salt, and for a moment, I reflected on how I’m always rushing – work, emails, the lot. Here, getting lost felt like the point, a gentle nudge to breathe and let serendipity lead.

Next morning, I laced up again, drawn to the Conwy River’s edge just a stone’s throw from Fir Cottages. A wee footpath I’d spotted by accident wound through ancient woods, dripping with moss and fairy-tale vibes. It popped me out at a forgotten picnic spot by the water, where herons fished like pros and the only soundtrack was rustling leaves. I picnicked on local cheddar and bara brith from the village shop, spotting a kingfisher dart – pure magic, that. No Instagram hordes; just the thrill of unearthing Llandudno’s off-piste pleasures, the ones the coach tours miss.

Fir Cottages wrapped my first day in pure contentment – that brookside garden glowing in the dusk, the faint hills calling for more aimless rambles. It’s the kind of place that rewards wanderers, turning mishaps into memories. If you’re after Llandudno without the tat, get lost here. You won’t regret it.