I’ll never forget the drive down to Carbis Bay – sat nav had me convinced we’d make it in four hours flat, but no, a cheeky diversion thanks to roadworks near Launceston turned it into a five-and-a-half-hour crawl. We were both starving by the end, and I’d polished off the last custard cream somewhere past Bodmin. Still, as we crested that final hill and caught our first glimpse of the sea sparkling below, all was forgiven. The anticipation bubbled up – this was it, our little slice of Cornish paradise.

Pulling up to the luxury ground floor seafront apartment in those posh Barepta Cove Apartments, I was gobsmacked. Direct access onto the South West Coastal Path, just a hop to the beach, and those floor-to-ceiling windows framing panoramic views from St Ives round to Godrevy Lighthouse? It was even better than the photos. The open-plan living area and master bedroom screamed stylish getaway, with owners’ worldly travel vibes woven in everywhere – perfect for us two and the dog. First impressions? Spot on.

But honestly, it wasn’t the views that made the holiday – it was the characters we met, those proper quirky locals who turned a relaxing break into a proper chinwag fest. Take old Reg from the beach café down in Carbis Bay. First morning, I’m fumbling with a pasty order, and he pipes up with, “Oi, luv, you from upcountry? That’s not how we do it – mustard on the side, always.” Turned out Reg’s been slinging pasties since the war, reckons he’s chatted up everyone from surfers to celebrities. We ended up nattering for half an hour about his glory days smuggling contraband fags across the bay – all in good fun, mind. “Keeps the blood pumping,” he winked, before slipping an extra scone into my bag.

Then there was Miriam, the wiry artist we bumped into on the coastal path. She’s got this wild nest of grey hair and paints en plein air every dawn. “You staying in them fancy flats?” she asked, squinting at us over her easel. We nodded, and she launched into tales of St Ives’ bohemian heyday – how her gran posed for some famous sculptor back in the day. “Cornwall’s full of dreamers,” she said, dabbing at her canvas. “Don’t let the tourists chase ’em all away.” We watched her work, swapping stories about our own daft city lives, and she even gave us a tip on the best hidden cove for a dip – “Shh, don’t tell the council!”

Even at the local shop in Carbis Bay, there was Trevor behind the counter, a dead ringer for a pirate with his beard and tattoos. “First time ’ere?” he grinned, eyeing my haul of clotted cream. Aye, I said, and he regaled us with how he once fished a mermaid’s purse off Godrevy – or so he claimed. “Proper magic down this stretch,” he chuckled. We laughed till our sides hurt.

Looking back, sat here now with a cuppa, I realise I’d been rushing about life up north without stopping to chat properly. These encounters – Reg’s scones, Miriam’s wisdom, Trevor’s yarns – they grounded me, made the sea views hit different. If you’re after that Cornish magic, get yourself down there. The locals? They’re the real highlight.