I’ll never forget the drive down to Southwold – a classic British road trip that started with high hopes and ended with me swearing at the satnav (under my breath, mind). We’d left Norwich early, buzzing with that pre-holiday fizz, imagining lazy beach walks and fish and chips by the pier. But halfway there, the heavens opened, and some numpty in a white van decided to splash a full puddle tsunami over our windscreen. Cue frantic wipers and me gripping the wheel like it was a lifeline. Still, by the time we trundled into town, the sun had peeked out, and there it was: our bright and airy first-floor apartment overlooking the magnificent Southwold high street. What a belter of a first impression – luxury coastal bolthole vibes, perfect for us two and the dog, just a hop from the beach’s glistening shores. We dumped the bags and cracked open a window to the salty breeze. Pure bliss.

No sooner had we settled than the quirky locals started weaving their magic. First up was Madge from the bakery downstairs – a wiry septuagenarian with a laugh like a foghorn and stories for days. “You here for the pier, love?” she barked as I nipped down for fresh scones. Turned out she’d worked the pier’s slot machines back in the day, before they got all “health and safety.” Over clotted cream, she regaled us with tales of the 1953 flood, when Southwold’s beach turned into a boating lake. “Bloke next door rowed to the pub!” she cackled. I was hooked – who needs TripAdvisor when you’ve got Madge?

Then there was Derek, the fisherman we bumped into on the high street, rods slung over his shoulder like a proper salty dog. He was mending nets outside the Harbour Inn, eyes twinkling under his flat cap. “Crabbing today?” he asked, spotting our excited faces. We joined him for half an hour, chatting about the best spots off the pier – apparently, the secret’s in the bacon bait. Derek’s a Southwold lifer, born in a cottage round the corner, and he dropped gems like how the Adnams brewery whistle still signals shift changes at dawn. “Keeps the town ticking,” he grinned. We laughed about his epic fail trying to catch a seal once – “Slippery blighter nicked my lunch!” Pure gold.

Even the evening stroll to the beach brought characters aplenty. We met Barry, the eccentric beachcomber with a trolley full of driftwood sculptures, flogging them to promenaders. “This one’s a lighthouse – or a wonky teapot, depending on the ale,” he winked. Over a pint at the Lord Nelson, he spun yarns about smuggling ghosts haunting the cliffs (rubbish, but brilliant). These chats made the holiday – not the fancy apartment views (though they were lush), but the real Southwold soul.

Looking back, I realise I’d been so caught up in work emails before we left that I’d forgotten how chats with proper characters recharge the batteries. No filters, just honest Suffolk banter. We left with full bellies, sandy paws, and a promise to Madge for next year’s scones. Southwold’s got me – hook, line, and sinker.