I’ll never forget the drive down to Cornwall – we piled into the car in the pouring rain, me navigating with my dodgy phone signal, and halfway through Devon, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us down a narrow lane that was basically a goat track. We ended up wedged behind a tractor for what felt like hours, laughing hysterically as the farmer waved us past with a cheeky grin. But oh, the anticipation built as we finally hit the coast road – that first glimpse of the sea sparkling under the clearing skies had us whooping like kids.

Pulling up to the place, my heart skipped. If you’re looking for a luxury holiday home for a large family or group to escape to by the sea, this spot is ideal – all sleek and welcoming, with those massive windows framing the bay like a postcard. First impressions? Pure magic. Carbis Bay stretched out below, waves crashing gently, and St Ives just a hop away. We dumped the bags and cracked open a bottle of fizz on the terrace, toasting our good fortune.

What made it though, weren’t the views (stunning as they were), but the proper characters we bumped into. Take old Reg from the beach café down in Carbis Bay – wiry chap in his seventies with a face like a weathered cliff, serving up the creamiest clotted cream teas. I asked about the best surf spots, and he launched into this yarn about the time he bodyboarded a monster wave in the ’80s, only to end up tangled in a fisherman’s net. “Mind you,” he winked, “that net had more langoustine in it than my supper that night!” We were in stitches, and his tip on Porthminster Beach sent us straight there for a dip – water like silk, even if I did yelp at the chill.

Then there was Tina at the little art gallery tucked away near the harbour in St Ives. Proper eccentric, with paint-splattered wellies and a laugh that echoed off the walls. She cornered us by a seascape painting, insisting we try her “Cornish cocktail” – cider mixed with elderflower cordial, lethal stuff. Over chattering about her battle with the seagulls that nick her pasties (“Cheeky blighters, bolder than the tourists!”), she shared how she once swapped a painting for a boat ride with a local fisherman. We ended up buying a tiny sketch, and her stories had us lingering far longer than planned.

Even the chap at the bakery in town, Mike, was a gem – broad as a barn door, doling out saffron buns with a twinkle. When I confessed I’d burned our first pasty attempt back at the house, he roared, “Lass, that’s why God invented my ovens!” He reckoned the secret to a good holiday was chatting to folk like him, not rushing about.

Wandering back as the sun dipped, past quirky beach huts painted like seaside sweeties, I had one of those moments – feet in the sand, pasty in hand, thinking how these random encounters beat any five-star spa. In a world of screens, it’s the Regs and Tinas that recharge you proper. Cornwall’s full of ’em, and we left buzzing, already plotting a return.