There are places that pull at your soul quietly, not with grandeur or thrill, but with the kind of peace that makes you exhale in a way you didn’t know you were holding your breath. Llandudno was that for us.

It was a trip that now lives in the soft corners of memory—the kind you don’t always talk about, but when you close your eyes, you can still feel the crisp air and hear the playful argument of seagulls over the sea. This is a late post, yes—but some stories take time to settle before they ask to be written. Maybe it wasn’t just a visit to a coastal town. Maybe it was a moment of stillness the heart had longed for.

We arrived on a breezy morning, the kind that tousles your hair with a hint of freedom. The air was brisk, but not unkind. There was something cinematic about it—the curve of the roads, the pastel houses stacked like soft whispers along the hillside, and the turquoise sea waiting patiently like an old friend who doesn’t mind how long it’s been.

I remember sitting quietly on a wooden bench inside the tram that creaked its way up the Great Orme, the sunlight painting my face as I looked out the window. That moment—frozen in quiet observation—was not just about seeing the landscape. It was about feeling it. The way grass danced with the wind, the way the distant hills curved like the slow breathing of the Earth, the way time seemed to stretch and yawn and tell us: “You’re allowed to pause.”

There were no pressing thoughts. No checklists. No roles to play. Just the rustle of your coat, the weight of someone’s hand in yours, and the hum of a heart finally learning to be present.

Later that day, we stood by the promenade. My arms stretched wide, laughing into the breeze, feeling like a child on the first day of summer. Behind me, the hills cradled the town and the sea mirrored the sky. There’s something about being near water that reintroduces you to yourself. You remember how small you are—and somehow, that becomes comforting. You don’t have to carry the world all the time.

We strolled through the pier with the delight of first-timers, past shops selling sugary dreams in pastel tubs of cotton candy, and signs offering fish and chips with the kind of honesty only seaside towns have. We didn’t come for luxury. We came for simplicity—and we found it in every bite of salt-soaked chips, every smile from a passerby, every gentle clap of waves greeting the rocks.

The carousel spun behind us, music in the air, but we didn’t need the ride to feel the thrill. We had each other. We had this day.

Then, as the sun began to tilt westward, we walked further, past the dainty houses that looked like they belonged in a storybook, their windows winking in the afternoon light. We saw swans and gulls floating calmly in the lagoon, like brushstrokes on a canvas of teal. Nature was not just a backdrop here—it was a character of its own.

I remember pausing near the edge of the hill, looking down at the entire town. The rooftops sprawled like scattered puzzle pieces. Cars moved like whispers along the road. And there I was—just a girl in a trench coat, hair a little messy from the wind, eyes full of thoughts not yet spoken. Sometimes you don’t realize how much you’ve needed to breathe until you’re somewhere like this, away from the noise, where even silence has a sound.

But like all beautiful chapters, even the slowest days must wind down. As our time in Llandudno drew to a close, we stumbled upon a quaint café tucked in a quiet corner of town—MerryMoon.

From the moment we stepped inside, I knew we’d found a hidden gem. It felt like walking into someone’s living room—if that someone happened to be a whimsical artist with a love for vintage bicycles, violins turned wine racks, and an eye for cozy lighting.

There was a bicycle suspended from the ceiling with flowers blooming from its basket, and a corner table by the window where light pooled like warm honey. We sat there, in a little cocoon of peace, while the world outside carried on.

We ordered a hearty bowl of beef pho that tasted like comfort and home, crispy cauliflower bites with a tangy dipping sauce, and a fresh, colorful salad that felt like spring on a plate. Everything about that meal whispered thoughtfulness—from the flavours to the way it was served.

And isn’t it funny how the smallest, simplest things linger the longest?

I looked around that café and felt, again, the joy of being fully here. Not rushed. Not trying to capture the perfect photo or chase the next itinerary item. Just… being. Laughing with Jan across the table. Noticing how our hands mirrored each other’s movements. Savoring spoonfuls of soup between conversations. It was all unremarkable—and yet completely unforgettable.

That last meal at MerryMoon didn’t just fill our stomachs. It filled our souls.

If Llandudno reminded me to slow down, MerryMoon reminded me to savour.
To let quiet moments be the reward.
To find beauty not just in where we go, but in how we pause.

And as we stepped out of the café and into the soft glow of the late afternoon light, I felt something shift—something gentle. Gratitude, perhaps. Or maybe just the quiet certainty that life is better when it’s lived with attention.

It’s easy to forget how important it is to take breaks. Not just the kind where you sleep or scroll or momentarily unplug—but the kind that nourishes you. The kind where you remember who you are when no one’s watching. The kind where you find yourself standing before the sea, and instead of thinking about what’s next, you just… feel thankful.

Gratitude came quietly, like the waves: steady, soft, always returning.

We ended our day in Llandudno not with fanfare, but with stillness. We sat on a weathered bench overlooking the sea, letting the wind carry whatever worries we no longer needed. I didn’t want to rush the moment. I just wanted to be there. Fully there.

Llandudno was not just a place. It was a reminder.

That life doesn’t have to be loud to be meaningful.
That some of the best days are the slow ones.
That love doesn’t need big declarations—just presence.
And that even late posts carry a heartbeat, because memory has its own way of keeping moments alive.