I’ll never forget the drive up to Atlas Oakwood Lodge in North Wales – a proper comedy of errors from the off. I’d set off from Chester early, sat-nav chirping away, only for a rogue sheep to saunter onto the A55 like it owned the road. Brakes on, heart in mouth, and there I was, nose-to-wool with this fluffy menace, honking futilely while it gave me a bored side-eye. “Cheers, mate,” I muttered, edging past. Ten minutes later, I’m pulling into the lodge’s drive, still chuckling at my city-boy panic, the North Wales countryside rolling out like a postcard – all misty hills and drystone walls, just five minutes from the buzz of Chester.

First impressions? Blimey, this place hit me like a warm hug. Tucked in a cosy corner of North Wales, Atlas Oakwood Lodge is one of those cracking little retreats that feels like it’s been waiting just for you. I hopped out, bag in hand, and was greeted by the owner, Dai – a wiry chap in wellies, with a beard like a Brillo pad and a grin wider than the Menai Strait. “You the London lad?” he boomed, shaking my hand like we were old mates. Turned out he’d clocked my reg plate. “Sheep nearly had you, eh? Happens to the best of us.” We had a right natter right there on the gravel, him regaling me with tales of his sheepdog trials – “That one back there? Won third at Llangollen last year. Thinks he’s the boss now.” Dai’s the sort who could talk the hind legs off a donkey; before I’d even unlocked the door, he’d roped me into a chat about the best chippy in Chester (Grosvenor Street, apparently, none of your fancy tourist traps).

Inside, the lodge was pure bliss – wood-burner flickering, telly humming with rugby highlights – but it was the locals who stole the show from minute one. I’d barely unpacked when there was a knock; enter Mrs Evans from next door, bearing a plate of bara brith and a thermos of tea strong enough to strip paint. “Thought you might be peckish after the road,” she said, eyes twinkling behind her specs. Eighty if she’s a day, with stories that flowed like the Dee at flood time. She plonked down and launched into her yarn about the time Chester Cathedral’s bells got stuck mid-peal during a wedding – “Groom thought it was a bad omen, scarpered before the vows!” We laughed till my sides ached, her gentle ribbing about my “fancy electric kettle” (guilty as charged) making me feel right at home.

That first afternoon, I wandered down to the nearby pub – The Oakwood Arms, five minutes’ stroll – and it was character central. Barman Huw, built like a prop forward, poured me a pint of local Brimstone and introduced “the regulars.” There was Tom the postie, nursing a lager and moaning about “these new electric vans – sodding useless on the hills!” and cheeky young Siôn, fresh from the stables, who reckoned my driving mishap was “nothing compared to dodging tourists on the A55 in summer.” They pulled me into their banter, quizzing me on London life (“Tube strikes? We’ve got actual strikes – weather ones!”), and before long, I was swapping sheep stories of my own, embellished for effect. Huw even slipped me a doggy bag of their famous Welsh rarebit – “Fuel for tomorrow’s adventures, bach.”

As the sun dipped behind the Clwydian hills, I sat on the lodge deck with a brew, reflecting gently on it all. Here I was, a flustered southerner who’d nearly been outwitted by a sheep, now proper adopted by this quirky North Wales crew. It wasn’t the fancy fixtures or the view that hooked me – it was Dai’s booming laugh, Mrs Evans’ cake, and the pub lads’ easy welcome. Three days in, and already I’m plotting a return. Who knew first impressions could feel like coming home?