I’ll never forget the drive down to Cornwall – sat nav had me convinced we’d make it in four hours flat, but no, a cheeky diversion around some roadworks near Plymouth turned it into a five-and-a-half-hour crawl. We ended up stopping at a services for pasties that were more potato than pastry, laughing about how I’d packed enough crisps to feed a rugby team just in case. By the time we trundled into Torpoint, the sun was dipping low, and I was buzzing with that proper holiday anticipation – you know, windows down, sea air whipping in, dreaming of pasties that actually taste of Cornwall.

Pulling up to the farmhouse, my first impressions were spot on: a cosy, rambling old place with a lived-in charm that screamed proper Cornish welcome. Whitewashed walls, a sprawling garden spilling over with wildflowers, and that faint scent of the sea even though we’re tucked inland a bit. It felt like stepping into someone’s favourite auntie’s house, complete with a Aga in the kitchen that I immediately burned toast on.

But the real magic? The characters we met. First up was Dave, the bloke who runs the local farm shop not five minutes down the lane. He’s got this wild beard that looks like it’s been styled by a gale off the Tamar, and he cornered me on day one while I was faffing about picking veg. “You from up country, eh?” he grinned, handing over a punnet of strawberries the size of golf balls. Turned out he’d been mending boats since he was knee-high, and regaled me with tales of the time a seal nicked his catch right off the line. “Cheeky bugger waved at me after!” We ended up chatting for half an hour about his dodgy hip and my rubbish golf swing – proper banter that made me forget I’d forgotten the milk.

Then there was Maggie from the village pub, The Devoran – a five-minute wander away. She’s tiny, with hair like a bird’s nest and stories for days. Over a pint of local ale (smooth as, none of your fizzy nonsense), she leaned in and whispered about the “ghost crab” that haunts the estuary mudflats at low tide. “Seen it meself, scuttlin’ backwards with a twinkle in its eye!” I nodded along, half-believing her, while her mate Bert chipped in about the time he tried racing a local fisherman’s dog on the beach. “Lost by a nautical mile, I did – that mutt’s got fins!” Their laughter was infectious; we were there till closing, swapping daft anecdotes about past holidays gone wrong.

Even the postman, Terry, chipped in one morning when I was wrestling with the gate. “On ‘oliday are ya? Don’t let the seagulls nick your chips!” He’s got a limp from years hauling mail in all weathers and a soft spot for telling off tourists who park wonky. Those chats grounded me, you know? Made me reflect on how I’m always rushing about back home – here, time slows down, and it’s the people who make it golden.

We whiled away days ambling the creeks, spotting herons, and popping back for Maggie’s legendary fish pie. Quirky lot, these Cornish folk, but they’ve got hearts of gold. Can’t wait to go back – next time, I’m bringing Dave some proper crisps.