I’ll never forget the drive down to that holiday home near Devoran – sat nav insisting we take a shortcut through some winding lanes that turned out to be more like goat tracks. We ended up with a puncture from what must’ve been a rogue flint, right in the middle of nowhere, with the kids moaning about missing pasties for lunch. Me, playing the hero with the spare tyre, only to discover I’d put it on wonky and we limped the last mile like a three-wheeled shopping trolley. Still, by the time we pulled up, the anticipation had me grinning – there it was, this cracking three-storey house perched on the countryside edge, promising views that made the whole faff worthwhile.

First impressions? Blimey, it was love at first sight. That private balcony overlooking the rolling fields, the Bissoe cycle trail practically waving at us from the doorstep – perfect for a gentle pedal to the coast at Portreath. Inside, the open-plan living space swept us off our feet: a kitchen begging for a proper fry-up, dining table big enough for all our lot, and a sitting room with a woodburning stove that screamed cosy nights in. We dumped the bags and cracked open a bottle of local cider, already plotting lazy days.

But the real magic? The characters we met. First up was old Reg from the village shop, a wiry chap in wellies who looked like he’d been born in the same tweed jacket. I popped in for milk and ended up chatting for half an hour about his prize-winning leeks – “Grows ‘em taller than me wife, they do!” he cackled, pressing a bunch on me gratis. Proper quirky, with tales of smuggling ghosts along the Fal estuary that had me half-believing.

Then there was Tina at the waterside café by the cycle trail, dishing out cream teas with a side of gossip. “You staying up at that big house?” she asked, eyes twinkling. Turned out her cousin had built half the bookshelves in Truro back in the day. She regaled us with stories of the local pilchard wars – fishermen rowing for miles over the best hauls – while slathering clotted cream just so. We laughed till our sides hurt, her thick accent turning every sentence into a yarn.

Even the bloke on the trail, Derek, mid-ride on his rusty bike, stopped for a natter about kingfishers darting along the river. “Seen three this week, mate – better than Netflix!” he beamed, before vanishing into the hedges like a hobbit. These encounters turned our quiet escape into a proper Cornish soap opera.

Reflecting on it now, amid the luxury and views, it was those chats that stuck. Us city folk rushing about, and here were folks with time to bend your ear over a pasty. Made me ponder how we could all do with a bit more of that – less scrolling, more stories. We cycled, walked the trails, stoked that stove for rainy evenings, but it was the locals who made the holiday. Can’t wait to go back and catch up with Reg’s leeks.