I’ll never forget the drive to the Isle of Wight – or rather, the ferry crossing that nearly did me in. We’d piled into the car at Portsmouth, buzzing with that pre-holiday excitement, kids chattering about sandcastles, when halfway across the Solent the engine started spluttering like an old man with a cough. Turned out to be a dodgy bit of fuel, but after a tense half-hour bobbing about, we limped into Ryde and parked up, hearts still racing. Still, as we hauled our bags up to the second-floor apartment in this grand old Victorian building, the wraparound sea views hit us like a tonic – sparkling Solent on one side, the harbour buzzing below. Flat D felt like a proper home from home straight away: traditional décor, cosy sitting room with plush seats begging for a family film night, and a kitchen stocked enough to rustle up spag bol without faffing about. Pet-friendly too, which had our scruffy terrier, Monty, wagging like mad.

First impressions? Spot on. We dumped the bags and wandered down to the beach, just moments away, anticipation bubbling over into whoops as the kids paddled in the shallows. But it was the locals who turned this trip into proper gold – quirky bunch, every one, and it’s their yarns that stuck with me most.

Take old Reg from the harbourside café, first morning. We’re nursing coffees, Monty sniffing about, when he shuffles over with a tray of fresh rock buns. “You lot from the mainland, eh? Looks like it – too pasty!” he chuckles, eyes twinkling under his flat cap. Reg’s a Ryde lifer, born in a house that’s since washed halfway out to sea. He regales us with tales of the great storm of ’87, when his boat ended up in a neighbour’s garden. “Fetched up with the washing line still attached!” We’re in stitches, buying extra buns just to keep him going. Proper character, Reg – the kind who makes you forget the ferry fright.

Then there’s Sheila behind the counter at the beachside chippy that evening. We rock up famished after a paddle steamer jaunt to Shanklin – well, not quite, just a quick hovercraft hop really, but felt like an adventure. Sheila’s got this wild perm and a laugh like a foghorn. “Fish and chips for the clan? Mind the seagulls, they’re worse than my ex – dive-bomb ya for a penny!” She’s dishing out advice on the best spots for crab lines down by Appley Beach, all while quizzing us on London life. “Too rushed up there, love. Here, we take our time – unless it’s queueing for the pier tattoo stall.” Her stories of Ryde’s summer regattas had us hooked; apparently last year’s pie-eating contest ended with the vicar covered head to toe in custard. Monty got a sneaky chip off her, the cheeky sod.

Even the lady at the newsagent’s, Doris, chipped in as we grabbed papers and ice creams. Tiny thing with glasses perched on her nose, she’s been selling papers since the war. “That view from your flat? Best in Ryde. Mind the ghosts though – Victorian buildings, full of ’em!” She winked, spinning a yarn about a spectral sailor who pinches socks from the washing line. Laughable, but the kids lapped it up, eyes wide.

Chatting with these folks over fish suppers and cream teas, I found myself reflecting gently – amid the holiday whirl, it’s these daft conversations that recharge the batteries, aren’t they? Not the fancy spots, but the Regs and Sheilas who make a place hum. We left Ryde knackered but grinning, already plotting a return. Proper tonic, that was.