NECESSITY is the mother of invention. It’s also the sister of duress, but there’s one in every family. No matter its genealogical roots, though, originality is a branch that starts small but can reach the most incredible heights; it can be found growing in the least likely soils and bear some lofty fruit.

Wondering where I’m going with this tortured metaphor? Well, 300 miles down the motorway and west a bit to a venue that expresses the scope of creativity by its very existence – and luckily also makes for a damn fine adventure.

Surf Snowdonia is no misnomer: it’s surfing, in Snowdonia. But while the name sounds straightforward enough – you wouldn’t even need to indicate on that one – there’s something a little bit different about the surf in this neck of the woods in North Wales.

For one thing, there’s a neck of woods, almost on the front door. For it’s not on the area’s Llyn Peninsula, nor even on the handy Cambrian coastline; in fact, Surf Snowdonia is exactly where it shouldn’t be – inland, on the site of an abandoned aluminium factory, in the glorious Conwy Valley. And that’s why this place is special. Well, that and the fab facilities, quirky accommodation and atmosphere so chilled that they don’t need fire extinguishers.

It’s no surprise really that smiles are in abundance among the Surf Snowdonia staff; the economic value of those freely supplied grins only slightly above the pound these days. Not only would they look as comfortable at a luau in a coconut bikini, their place of work is basically la vida we all want to be livin’ loca.

You see, Surf Snowdonia isn’t just a stunning fresh-water lagoon with a wavegarden generating the perfect swell every time by the push of a well-thumbed button, it’s also a glorious setting for a walk by the water, a cuppa in the café or a beer in the bar, as evidenced by the number of tourists and locals not in swimwear, just happy to look on from the dry sidelines.

But not this girl. It just wouldn’t be right to travel all the way to North Wales and take in the views without seriously endangering my life in the process now, would it?

After a night glamping in eco pods that make my flat feel like roughing it in comparison, I was fresh and ready for, well, breakfast. But after that bonanza, it was all about the adventure. Never one to defer to the obvious, I’d decided the best way to get a real feel for Surf Snowdonia was, of course, to take to the water for a lesson in, em, stand up paddle-boarding. Fine, I’m still not exactly amphibious and even the beginner surfing lessons, learning on whitewater waves in the lagoon’s designated bay areas, still seemed too deep for this aquaphobe’s end. Down but not out, though, I was determined to push myself on to that shimmering surface, and what better way to do it than with a paddle?

I’ll admit I almost gave up on the entire escapade when, alone in the changing rooms, I punched my own jaw trying to pull on my wetsuit but, after finally winning the fight against rubber and mass panic, I padded along to The Academy to join my five fellow learners and our suitably rugged instructor, Rick Vlek. Rick introduced himself as a Dutch surfer, then, in that way that only impossibly eloquent Europeans can, apologised for his grasp on his second language rivalled only by mine on my life-giving paddle. It quickly became clear that Rick’s passion for catching waves was as infectious as church laughter, and I was soon nervously but determinedly following him and the group towards the lake’s edge.

Wait, did I make that sound like a heroic entrance to the world of watersports? Now, factor in the awkward carrying of a board bigger than my ex’s delusions, and you’re starting to see a truer picture. I staggered into that lagoon with all the grace of an injured ego, and that was before I was standing atop a wobbly plank. Of course, there was some on-land instruction to go through first and, as Rick explained, the basic paddle strokes and how to get back up when you inevitably fall in the water, I wondered how easily I could grow a sufficient brass neck to keep my head happily above the two-metre depth.

The rest of the class, which included sisters from Elgin and a dynamic husband and wife duo, were confident swimmers. I checked; it’s always good to know how many people in your company can haul your hind end safely from the deep blue. But Rick was confident that even this landlubber could come to lub the water too, and quickly had us all wading in and lying back in the cold water to illustrate the natural buoyancy of our bodies and wetsuits, and, I suspect, for his own amusement. Before long, it was time to fasten up the ankle straps and tentatively trust our weight to the boards’ might. Not quite ready for the stand up part of paddle-boarding though, Rick first showed us how to manoeuvre on our knees, encouraging us to return to this position if we were ever feeling a little vulnerable on our feet.

One by one, like Noah’s freight but a mite lonelier, we ventured out across the lagoon; ducklings on our very first outing. Keeping the paddle close to the board’s side, as instructed, I drew it back a few times, first on the left then on the right, passing the stick from hand to shaking hand, feeling myself pitch forward with each pull. I’m not sure I breathed during that first voyage, preferring instead to focus all physiological effort on keeping the board between the water and me at all times. Soon though, Rick was demonstrating the transition from kneeling to standing and, somehow, I was doing it – only slightly less elegantly – too. After several safe crossings, both downwind and up,

I wasn’t ready to tackle river rapids, but I was at least prepared for slow streams.

Free then to explore the manmade pool’s expanse, I opted to mosey off alone down its length, not through some returning social discomfiture, but because the only way I could retain any semblance of stability was to steer well clear of obstacles or, as they’re sometimes known, other people. I reckon it was probably terrified determination but, for whatever reason, I managed not to fall from my trusty steed. Granted, there were several moments in which I had to remove myself from the group, particularly during the conga circle, but I stayed upright and, more than that, enjoyed the experience.

I think it’s true testament to Rick’s love of the sport that at the end of the hour, when he no longer had any commitment to my tuition, he took me aside and taught me a few techniques to help me gain confidence in the water. And that’s the thing about Surf Snowdonia; from the nifty wristbands that electronically lock the glamping pods, to the crazy Crash and Splash that lets you catapult your mates into the lagoon from a 10-metre long cushion; it’s that extra something, that sparkle of creativity that turns an aluminium works into an outstanding surf venue, and a simple day trip into a real adventure.