I’ll never forget the drive to Hunstanton – we’d packed the car with enough crisps and tea bags to last a siege, only for the satnav to chuck a wobbly just past King’s Lynn. It rerouted us down some narrow lane that felt more like a farm track, and there we were, stuck behind a tractor trundling along at snail’s pace, me muttering about missing the sunset. But honestly, that little mishap just built the anticipation – by the time we rolled up, I was buzzing to see this one-bedroom property overlooking the sea.

First impressions? Blimey, it was a gem. That cosy spot with its coastal and countryside views, all decked out in luxury furnishings – perfect for a romantic getaway, just us two wanting some peace and quiet. We dumped the bags, cracked open a bottle of fizz on the balcony, and watched the waves roll in. Proper idyllic.

What made the trip, though, weren’t the views (stunning as they were), but the quirky locals we bumped into. Take old Ron from the newsagent down the road – we popped in for milk the next morning, and he’s regaling us with tales of the time a seal washed up on the beach and decided to sunbathe right by the pier. “Cheeky blighter followed me home!” he chuckled, eyes twinkling behind his specs. Turned out he’s a retired fisherman who swears by Hunstanton’s crab sandwiches as the cure for all ailments. We grabbed one from his mate’s shack nearby – fresh as you like, and worth every penny.

Then there was Maureen at the Old Hunstanton café we wandered into for elevenses. She’s this bustling sort with a laugh like a foghorn, dishing out scones thicker than my nan’s fruitcake. “You lot from up London way?” she asked, clocking our accents straight off. We nodded, and she launched into a yarn about her nephew who tried kite-surfing off the beach last summer – ended up tangled in a deckchair, rescued by the lifeguards amid much hilarity. “Norfolk folk don’t rush,” she winked, “we let the tide sort it out.” We spent half an hour chatting about her prize marrow from the village show, me promising to send her a photo of our city allotment (which is basically a windowsill pot of basil).

Later, strolling along the promenade, we met Dave, the ice cream vendor who looked like he’d stepped out of a postcard – flat cap, whistle round his neck. He’d clocked us from our balcony and joked, “Saw you two smooching at sunset – don’t worry, my lips are sealed, unless it’s for a 99 Flake!” Proper character, with stories of the hunny pots (his words) that wash up after storms. We licked our cones while he banged on about the best birdwatching spots just a hop from the property – oystercatchers piping away at dawn.

Chatting with them all, I had a proper moment of self-reflection, sat there with my cuppa as the sun dipped. In the rush of everyday life, we forget how a natter with real characters recharges the soul. No agendas, just stories and a shared love for this stretch of Norfolk coast. Hunstanton’s got that magic – quirky folk who make you feel like you’ve known them forever. We’re already plotting a return.