I’ll never forget the drive down to Carbis Bay – sat nav had us twisting through those narrow Cornish lanes like we were in a dodgy episode of The Dukes of Hazzard, only without the fun car chases. We’d just passed Hayle when a rogue seagull decided to audition for a windscreen splatter, leaving us blinking through the mess and laughing our heads off. “Welcome to Cornwall,” I said to my other half, wiping it with a service station wipe. By the time we pulled up at our ground-floor apartment on the seaward side of the bay, anticipation was bubbling – the sea air hit us first, salty and promising, and there it was, this sleek two-bedroom spot, all contemporary open-plan vibes with floor-to-ceiling windows flooding the dining area with that endless ocean glow. Seaside art on the walls, cosy sofas for sinking into with Sky telly, a nifty kitchen with a breakfast bar perfect for perching. First impressions? Spot on – felt like our own little slice of coastal heaven, right by the beach, the scenic railway chugging past, and those cliff walks to St Ives or Hayle just begging to be explored.

But honestly, it was the locals who turned the holiday into pure gold. First up was Reg, the chap from the beach café down the path – wiry bloke in his seventies with a beard like a Brillo pad and stories for days. I’d popped in for a cream tea (jam first, obviously, or it’s anarchy), and he clocked my London accent straight away. “You lot up country think pasties are just a snack,” he grinned, sliding over a massive one stuffed with proper local beef. “This here’s Towans, born and bred – my gran smuggled rum past the customs in her bloomers back in the war.” We ended up chatting for an hour about his days on the fishing boats, how the seals off the bay nick pilchards like pros, and his ongoing feud with the seagulls. “Cheeky buggers dive-bombed my missus’s chips last week,” he chuckled. Proper character, Reg – left me grinning and vowing to dodge the gulls on our cliff walk.

Then there was Tina from the little art shop near the station, a St Ives lass with wild curls and paint-splattered wellies. We’d wandered over after a morning on the beach, and she was flogging these quirky prints of local scenes – crashing waves, pasty-munching surfers. “Fancy a go at etching?” she asked, shoving a kit my way. Turned out she’d grown up in the bay, knew every hidden cove. Over tea in her back room (proper builder’s brew, strong as an ox), she regaled us with tales of the eccentric Poldark extras who film nearby – “One fella turned up on a donkey, swearing it was authentic!” We swapped numbers; she even tipped us off on the best spot for sunset pilchards at the Towans pub.

Even the neighbour, old Mick next door, chipped in when we bumped into him on the path to the beach. Retired train driver, he’d wave from his balcony with a cheery “Alright, holidaymakers? Mind the jellyfish – they’re having a party out there today!” His yarn about spotting mermaids (or was it just phosphorescence?) had us in stitches over breakfast on our sea-view table.

Looking back, amid the moody lighting and sofa lounging, it hit me – I’d been rushing about life up north, forgetting how chats like these recharge the soul. Reg, Tina, Mick – they made our Cornish escape unforgettable. If you’re heading to Carbis Bay, pack your ears for the stories; they’re the real magic.