I’ll never forget the drive up to Blakeney – we’d set off from Norwich full of beans, only for the satnav to chuck a wobbly just past Fakenham and send us down a narrow lane that turned into a proper muddle of puddles. There I was, white-knuckling the wheel, convinced we’d end up in a field with the seals laughing at us. But we emerged, a bit later than planned, hearts racing with that fizzy anticipation of finally arriving somewhere special.

Pulling up to our bijou bolthole on the High Street, right in the thick of things, it was love at first sight – a gorgeous mid-terrace fisherman's cottage, all stylish charm and cosy vibes, minutes from the nature reserve and Blakeney Point where those massive grey seals hang out. We dumped the bags and headed straight out, buzzing to explore.

First up was the chippy down the road, where I got chatting to old Reg behind the counter. He’s got this wild white beard like a sea captain from a storybook and a laugh that rattles the vinegar bottles. “You here for the seals, love?” he asked, wrapping our cod in paper thicker than my nan’s Christmas pudding. Turned out Reg’s family’s been frying fish here for generations; he regaled us with tales of the great storm of ’87 that nearly washed the village away, all while insisting the best batter secret is “a whisper of beer and a lot of patience.” We left with steaming parcels and a grin, feeling like locals already.

Next morning, over flat whites at the deli-cafe, we bumped into Sarah, the wiry artist type with paint-flecked wellies who runs the place. She’s Blakeney born and bred, and doesn’t hold back. “Don’t you go seal-spotting without binoculars,” she warned, sliding over some homemade flapjacks. “Last lot of tourists came back moaning they’d seen nowt, but it was their own fault – seals are crafty buggers.” We laughed about that, and she shared how she sketches the harbour seals from her boat, dodging the cheeky ones that try to nick her sandwiches. Proper inspiring, she was – made me reflect on how I’ve been stuck in my office rut back home, dreaming of ditching the desk for something as free as that.

Afternoon took us to the pub, where landlady Maggie held court like a jolly pirate queen. With her booming voice and stories of the time a seal pup waddled right into the bar (true, apparently!), she poured us pints of local Adnams and quizzed us on our lives. “City folk always need slowing down,” she winked. “That’s what Blakeney does best.” We spent hours there, swapping yarns with a couple of crab fishermen who’d just come off the boat – grizzled lads called Pete and Tom, full of quips about the tourists who mistake moray eels for pets.

Evenings were for gentle strolls to the quay, bumping into more characters: the eccentric birder with his telescope who swore he’d spotted a rare spoonbill, and the deli owner dishing out gossip about village feuds over the best crab sandwich recipe. It was those quirky chats that made the stay – not just the stunning location, but the folk who breathe life into it. Left me pondering how a few days with proper characters can recharge your soul like nothing else. Blakeney’s a gem; we’re already plotting a return.