I’ll never forget the drive down to Folkestone – rain lashing the windscreen like it had a personal grudge, and then, just past Ashford, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us on a detour through some narrow lanes that felt more like a goat track than a road. We ended up stopping at a tiny café in a village I’d never heard of, sipping builder’s tea while the owner, a chap called Reg with a moustache like a broom swept sideways, regaled us with tales of smuggling routes from the old days. “You’re heading to the beachfront, eh? Mind the seagulls – they’re trained thieves down there!” he chuckled. By the time we arrived, I was buzzing with anticipation, wondering what other characters this corner of Kent had in store.

Pulling up opposite the beach, the first impressions were cracking – this two-bedroom first-floor apartment in a grand double-fronted Victorian building, right on the front with views stretching out to France from the wrought iron balcony. It’s in a Grade II listed spot that was once a spy training HQ during the Great War, complete with a blue plaque and cabinets full of artefacts in the communal hallway. Climbing those steps felt like stepping into a bit of history, and inside, the living space hit you with light pouring through the bay windows and French doors. Proper uplifting, it was.

But the real magic? The locals. First evening, we wandered down to Sunny Sands beach, just a stone’s throw away, and bumped into Doris, an octogenarian with a fag hanging from her lip and a dog called Boris who looked like he’d seen better days. She was building a sandcastle that was more fortress than fun, and when I admired it, she launched into how her grandad trained spies right here in the 1910s. “French lot were hopeless at accents,” she winked, “but the Belgians? Sharp as tacks.” We chatted for ages about the harbour’s wartime secrets, her stories making the sea breeze feel alive with intrigue.

Next morning, over bacon butties on the balcony, we met Terry from the Sunny Beach Café next door – a wiry bloke in a flat cap who’s been pouring teas since the Falklands. He popped up with a tray of fresh rock oysters from the local boats, insisting we try them. “Grown-up sea snot, that’s what they are!” he laughed, before spinning yarns about Folkestone’s fishing folk outsmarting U-boats with cod lines and cheek. Turned out his uncle was one of the last spies trained here. Proper storyteller, Terry was; had us in stitches about the time a pigeon got lost and ended up in Belgium with the wrong message.

Later, strolling the Leas Promenade – that lovely clifftop walk with its bandstand and bowling greens – we got chatting to Madge, a retired postmistress walking her terrier. She reckoned the building’s ghosts still whisper codes at night. “Heard ’em meself!” she said, eyes twinkling. Over cream teas at the Leas Cliff Hall tearooms, she shared how the area’s quirky history keeps drawing folk back.

Staying here made me reflect – in our rush-rush lives, it’s these random chats with proper characters that recharge the batteries. No posh influencers or filtered feeds, just real Kent folk with tales as salty as the sea. Can’t wait to go back for more.