I’ll never forget the drive up to 64Fw in Llwyngwril – that winding A493 hugging the Mawddach Estuary like it was afraid to let go. It was a drizzly Friday afternoon in early summer, the kind where the hills of North Wales look like they’ve just been steam-cleaned. Me and my mate Dave had set off from Shrewsbury with a boot full of provisions: a couple of bottles of Brains SA, some local cheddar from a farm shop en route, and a heroic attempt at packing fresh veg from the market in Machynlleth. But about five miles out, disaster struck – or rather, a rogue sheep decided my windscreen was its personal scratching post. It was nothing, just a daft lamb leaping out of a field and giving the car a love tap. No damage, but it had us laughing like idiots as we pulled over for a brew from the thermos. “Welcome to Wales,” Dave quipped, “where the sheep say hello first.”

By the time we rolled up to 64Fw, the sun was peeking through like an apologetic barman after last orders. This cosy stone cottage sits right on the edge of the village, with views over the estuary that make you want to crack open a tinnie immediately. First impressions? Pure bliss. It’s one of those proper Welsh boltholes – low-beamed ceilings, a wood-burner begging for logs, and a kitchen that’s small but mighty, stocked with everything you’d need for a proper feast. We dumped our bags and cracked on with the most important job: food.

That first evening, we hit the Llwyngwril village shop – a proper gem, tiny as a postage stamp but rammed with local goodies. I grabbed some bara brith from the bakery counter, still warm and sticky with that tangy Welsh fruitiness, and a slab of smoked mackerel from a coastal supplier down the road. Dave went mad for the artisan bread and a jar of cockles in vinegar – “proper seaside scran,” he called it. Back at the cottage, our cooking attempt was a right laugh. I fancied myself as a chef, searing the mackerel in butter with a bit of lemon from the garden (well, pinched from next door’s bush – don’t tell). Dave manned the hob for tattie wedges, but we overdid the garlic salt and ended up with chips that could wake the dead. Paired with a pint of Conwy Welsh Pride from the fridge, it was messy perfection. Sat by the estuary window, tucking in as the tide rolled out, we toasted to zero regrets. “This beats Deliveroo any day,” I said, wiping sauce off my chin.

Next morning, breakfast was a full-on event. The cottage’s Aga hummed like a contented dragon, and we raided the local Co-op for eggs from nearby hens and thick-cut bacon from a Gwynedd butcher. My attempt at Welsh rarebit went tits up – too much mustard, turned it into a cheese volcano – but slathered on toast with HP Sauce, it was glorious. We scoffed it on the patio, watching seals bob in the water below. Fuelled up, we wandered to the Tal-y-bont Stores, just a stroll away, for picnic odds and ends: pasties stuffed with lamb and mint, and some crumbly Welsh cakes that melted in your mouth. Lunch was those pasties on the cottage bench, with a flask of milky tea. Simple, but sod it, that’s the magic – no faffing about with menus.

Pub o’clock called us to the Llanelltyd Arms, a cracking local boozer barely a mile off. First impressions there? Pint of Felinfoel Double Dragon pulled perfectly, and the landlady’s fish pie special – creamy mash, flaky cod, peas from the village veg patch. We demolished it with chips and mushy peas, chatting bollocks with regulars about the fishing. Back for supper, I tried cawl – proper lamb stew with leeks from the market – but my version was more soup than stew after too much stock. Dave salvaged it with dumplings, and we supped it by the fire with crusty bread. Bloody delicious, even if I say so myself.

Reflecting on it now, that first 24 hours at 64Fw was a gentle nudge: slow down, cook like you mean it, eat with the estuary as your tablecloth. No grand adventures needed – just good grub, cracking pints, and a sheep-sized mishap to kick things off. If North Wales is calling, this is your spot.