I’ll never forget the drive to the Isle of Wight this summer – or rather, the ferry crossing that nearly did me in. We’d piled into the car at Portsmouth, buzzing with that holiday anticipation, kids in the back nattering about beaches and ice creams. But as we edged onto the Wightlink ferry, a cheeky seagull dive-bombed the windscreen, splattering it with what looked like a full English breakfast. Cue 20 minutes of me squinting through the mess while my husband Dave laughed like a drain and the sat-nav cheerily announced we were “arriving” every five seconds. Still, by the time we rolled off at Lymington and trundled the few miles to Yarmouth, the sun was glinting off the Solent, and my heart lifted. What a cracking first impression – that salty breeze, the pastel cottages hugging the harbour like they were in on some seaside secret.

Our spot was a cosy terraced house right in the thick of it, all nautical vibes with a little garden perfect for evening cups of tea. We dumped the bags and headed straight out, and that’s when the real magic kicked in – the locals. Yarmouth’s full of proper characters, the sort who make you feel like you’ve stumbled into a sitcom.

First up was Madge behind the counter at the village bakery, a wiry woman in her seventies with a peroxide bob and a laugh like a foghorn. “You lot from the mainland, eh? Bet you think our cream teas are backwards!” she cackled, slathering scones with clotted cream thicker than my waistline after Christmas. I confessed we’d nearly missed the ferry thanks to that gull, and she roared, “Serves ya right for not saluting the island spirits! Next time, wave a pasty at ‘em.” We left clutching warm sausage rolls, already plotting a return.

Wandering down to the harbour, we bumped into Captain Bert – well, that’s what he called himself – mending nets by his fishing boat. Grizzled beard, pipe in mouth, the full works. “Storm coming, mark my words,” he muttered, eyeing the clear sky. Turned out he’d been skipper here for 40 years, regaling us with tales of dodging tankers and spotting seals off Thorley Brook. My youngest, Ellie, asked if he’d ever caught a mermaid, and he winked, “Only on Saturdays, love – and she’s a terrible dancer.” We chatted for ages about the best crab spots within a stone’s throw, his stories pulling us right into island life.

Later, at the pub down the lane – think low ceilings, real ales, and a dartboard with more holes than a colander – we met Lofty, the barman with a handshake like a vice. Six-foot-something, hence the name, he’d lived in Yarmouth his whole life. “Outsiders come for the quiet,” he grinned, pouring pints, “but stay for the gossip.” Over fish and chips, he introduced us to Doris next door, a pensioner who’d once raced dinghies against Olympians. “Lost every time,” she admitted with a shrug, “but won the picnic.” Their banter had us in stitches – gentle ribbing about who’d nab the last beach hut.

Reflecting on it now, sat back home with a cuppa, I realise it wasn’t the walks along Colwell Bay or the Yarmouth Castle ruins that stuck – though they were lush – it was these folk. They turned a simple holiday let into a proper adventure, reminding me to chat more with strangers. Can’t wait to go back and see if Madge’s got any new gull rituals up her sleeve. Isle of Wight, you quirky gem, you’ve got me hooked.