I’ll never forget the drive down to Bognor Regis last month – the satnav decided to have a midlife crisis just past Chichester, sending us on a daft detour through some narrow lanes that had me white-knuckling the wheel while my other half fiddled with the radio for anything but Classic FM. We arrived a bit later than planned, hearts sinking at the thought of a grumpy host, but as we pulled up to this cosy little seaside cottage – all whitewashed charm with a cheeky blue door – the first impressions were spot on. The sea air hit us like a tonic, and there it was, right by the beach, promising a proper unwind.

No sooner had we unpacked than we wandered down to the promenade for a cuppa, and that’s when the real fun kicked off. First up was Madge, the lady running the beach hut kiosk, who must be in her seventies but with the energy of a Duracell bunny. “You lot from up country, eh?” she chirped, handing over our teas with a wink. Turned out she’d lived here since the war, regaling us with tales of how Bognor’s pier used to host ballroom dancing every night until some toff from London ruined it with health and safety nonsense. Her laugh was infectious, all gravelly from years of shouting over the waves, and she insisted we try her special rock – “none of that mass-produced rubbish, love, I know the lad what makes it.” We munched away, chuckling at her impersonation of the council bloke who once tried to ban ice creams on windy days.

The next day, strolling along the pebbles towards Hotham Park, we bumped into Terry, the self-appointed park keeper with a flat cap and a dog called Buster that looked like it had seen better days. He was tending the flowerbeds, muttering about “these tourists leaving crisp packets everywhere,” but warmed up when I asked about the model village tucked away there. “Oh, it’s a cracker,” he said, eyes lighting up. “Built by my grandad’s mate back in ’35 – tiny Butlin’s and all. Mind you, don’t tell the wife I spend more time here than at home.” We spent half an hour chatting as Buster tried to nick our sandwiches, Terry sharing gems about local characters like the fisherman who still rows out daily despite the groynes, claiming he’s “at one with the tide.” Proper yarn-spinner, that one.

Evenings brought more gems at the Marine Park Gardens café, where Ron the waiter – wiry chap with a Brummie accent he swore came from a misspent youth – quizzed us on our lives like we were old mates. “Sussex folk are quirky, see,” he grinned, “we’ve got time for a natter ’cos the sea teaches you patience.” One night, he roped us into a debate with a couple of regulars about whether the pier’s new owners would finally fix the helter-skelter. Laughter flowed freer than the pints next door.

Looking back, it wasn’t the walks or the fish and chips that made it – though they were cracking – it was these encounters that stuck. Made me reflect on how we rush about up north; down here, it’s the people who turn a holiday into something special. If you’re after proper Sussex soul, this is the spot. Can’t wait to go back and catch up with Madge’s latest saga.