I’ll never forget the drive to Blakeney – we’d packed the car to the gills with wellies, binoculars and enough cheese for a small army, only for the satnav to chuck us down a narrow lane that turned into a muddy quagmire just outside Cley. There I was, white-knuckling the wheel, swearing under my breath (well, muttering, anyway) as we slid about like Bambi on ice. But we made it, emerging caked in Norfolk dirt, and pulled up to this pretty-as-a-picture maisonette that stopped us dead. It’s got this absolutely stunning panoramic view of the marshes and sea from the master bedroom – I mean, you wake up and bam, nature’s blockbuster right there. Finished to an exceptionally high standard, with a private garden and parking for two cars, and just a short walk into the centre of Blakeney. First impressions? Magic. I was buzzing already, picturing lazy mornings with tea and toast, gazing out like lords of the manor.

No sooner had we unpacked than we wandered into the village, and that’s when the real fun kicked off – Blakeney’s full of these quirky characters who make you feel like you’ve stumbled into a gentle sitcom. First up was Dave, the chap at the quay with a beard like a bird’s nest and a dog called Seal (yes, really – “after the singer, not the animal,” he insisted with a wink). He was mending crab pots, regaling us with tales of seals pinching his catch. “They’ve got cheekier lips than my ex-wife!” he chuckled, eyes twinkling. We hired a rowboat from him on the spot, and as we chugged out towards Blakeney Point, he yelled after us about spotting seals at low tide. “Mind the currents, or you’ll end up in Morston pub instead!” Pure gold.

Later, strolling the harbour, we bumped into Mrs. P, the local baker who runs a tiny stall by the church. She’s all of four-foot-nothing with a voice like a foghorn, doling out fresh crab sandwiches and gossip in equal measure. “You staying at that posh little hideaway up the hill?” she asked, peering over her specs. I nodded, and she launched into how her gran used to row across the channel back in the day, dodging gunboats in the war. “Tougher than you lot with your fancy views!” she teased, slapping butter on a scone so thick it could’ve sealed a hull. We laughed till our sides hurt, and those sandwiches? Best ever – sweet, salty crab straight from the boats.

The next day, seal trip from the point with skipper Tom, a weather-beaten fisherman type who looked carved from driftwood. He’s got stories for days: “Saw a seal last week with a fish bigger than me arm – cheeky beggar waved at me!” As we bobbed about, seals popping up like furry periscopes, he reckoned half the village is related to them. “We’re all a bit flippered round here,” he quipped. Back on dry land, we hit the White Horse for a pint, chatting with barman Mick, who claimed his pint-pulling arm’s insured for thousands after 40 years. “Pulls more than the tide!” he roared.

Reflecting on it now, sat in that garden with the sun dipping over the marshes, I realised these encounters were the holiday’s heartbeat. Not the views (stunning as they are), but the people – warm, witty, woven into the salt air. Blakeney’s not just a spot; it’s alive with characters who make you leave grinning, already plotting a return. What a tonic.