I finally made it to Llandudno after a bit of a faff on the train from Manchester—some prat had left their brolly jammed in the door at Colwyn Bay, delaying us by twenty minutes and turning my coffee into a lukewarm disappointment. But as the guard announced our arrival at the West Shore station, all that melted away. I'd booked Seahorses, this cosy little two-bedroom cottage right on the seafront promenade, for a spontaneous three-day getaway, and stepping out into the salty breeze felt like the perfect reset.

The chap at the station, a wiry bloke in a hi-vis vest with a beard like a Brillo pad, clocked my rucksack and suitcase straight off. "First time in Llandudno, love?" he asked, already hoicking my bag onto a trolley without waiting for an answer. "Name's Dai—been shunting these tracks since Thatcher was in short trousers." Dai turned out to be a font of local lore, rattling on about the Great Orme's trams while trundling me the short walk to Seahorses. "Mind the seagulls," he warned with a wink. "Cheeky buggers'll nick your chips faster than you can say 'ketchup'." I laughed, already charmed by his deadpan humour, and by the time we reached the cottage's whitewashed front door—overlooking the sweeping bay—he'd convinced me to try the cockles at the promenade stalls later.

Seahorses itself was an absolute gem: compact and shipshape, with nautical knick-knacks everywhere and a lounge window framing the Irish Sea like a living painting. No sooner had I dumped my bags than Mrs Evans from next door popped over with a welcoming plate of Welsh cakes, still warm from her Aga. She's a pensioner with a perm like candyfloss and stories for Wales, as they say. "Settling in alright, bach?" she cooed, peering past me into the kitchen. "That oven's a bit temperamental—give it a stern word if it plays up." We ended up chatting on the doorstep for half an hour about her late husband's fishing exploits off the pier. "He'd catch nowt but seaweed half the time," she chuckled, "but swore it was the mermaids' fault." Her warmth made the place feel like home already, and I nipped inside grinning like an eejit.

Wandering down the prom for a nose around, I bumped into Tommo, the ice cream vendor from the van parked opposite the cottage. He's a burly lad in his forties with tattoos up to his elbows and a voice like gravel. "Vanilla scoop or double?" he bellowed as I approached, but then clocked my accent. "Not from round here, are ya? Let me guess—Londoner fleeing the rat race?" Spot on, I admitted, and he launched into a monologue about Llandudno's "proper characters." "See that lot over by the bandstand? The knitting brigade—been stitching scarves for the lifeboats since the war. Mad as hatters, but salt of the earth." He dished up my 99 with a flourish, refusing payment until I'd heard his tale of the time a pod of dolphins chased his uncle's boat right into the bay. "Never a dull day here," he said, eyes twinkling.

Later, as the sun dipped low over the Conwy estuary, I met grizzled old Reg on his daily bench vigil outside Seahorses. He's the self-appointed mayor of the promenade, complete with a thermos of tea and binoculars for "spotting submarines—you never know with the Ruskies." We got talking about the Victorian grandeur of the town—those grand hotels and the cable cars up the Orme—and he regaled me with yarns of Alice in Wonderland fame, since Lewis Carroll summered here. "Town's full of eccentrics," he confided. "Keeps life interesting."

Chatting with these locals, from Dai's banter to Mrs Evans' cakes and Tommo's scoops, turned my first hours into pure magic. It got me reflecting, sat there on Reg's bench with the waves lapping: in the rush of everyday life, we forget how a few quirky souls can make a place unforgettable. Can't wait to see what tomorrow brings.