I’ll never forget the drive down to Looe last summer – we’d packed the car to the brim with wellies, pasties, and enough tea bags to last a nuclear winter, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into a massive traffic jam just past Plymouth. Some daft roadworks had us crawling along like snails on Valium, and by the time we turned off towards the coast, I was humming sea shanties to keep my sanity. But oh, the anticipation built as those glimpses of the sea started peeking through the hedges – that salty tang in the air had me grinning like an idiot.

Pulling up to our cosy little deluxe pet-friendly cottage, tucked right by the beach with its sea views and that welcoming vibe, my first impressions were spot on. It felt like stepping into someone’s favourite holiday hug – compact but perfect, with space for the dog to sprawl and us to unwind. No sooner had we dumped the bags than we wandered down to the sandy pebble shore, and that’s when the real magic kicked off: the quirky locals.

First up was Madge, the chip shop queen on the front. She must’ve been in her seventies, with a laugh like a foghorn and stories that tumbled out faster than her batter dripping into the fryer. “You from up country, love?” she asked, eyeing my northern accent as she wrapped our haddock supper. Turned out she’d fished these waters since she was knee-high, and regaled us with tales of dodging seals that nicked her catch. “Cheeky buggers, they are – like furry pirates!” We chatted for ages about her escape from a storm in ’89, her eyes twinkling over the counter. Proper character, Madge – made our supper taste even better.

Next day, strolling the harbour, we bumped into Terry, the fisherman with a beard like a bird’s nest and hands like weathered driftwood. He was mending pots by his boat, whistling tunelessly, and didn’t bat an eyelid when our lab bounded over for a sniff. “Aye, he’s welcome – better manners than some tourists!” We got the lowdown on Looe’s smuggling past over a cuppa from his flask; he swore his grandad hid brandy in the cliffs during the war. “Still find bottles washed up now and then,” he winked. His dry wit had us in stitches – especially when he confessed to once trading a lobster for a pint.

Then there was little Ellie at the beach café, no more than ten, flogging handmade shell necklaces with the confidence of a market trader. “Three for a fiver, mister – they’re lucky!” she beamed, her gap-toothed grin infectious. Her nan popped out, chuckling, “She’s got the gift of the gab, that one – takes after her uncle who sells pasties to the seals.” We bought a dozen, and Ellie spun yarns about mermaids in Polperro cove, just up the way.

Those chats were the holiday’s heartbeat, really. Amid the cream teas and dog walks along the shore, it hit me in a quiet moment by the cottage window, waves lapping below: we’re all just passing through, but locals like them make a place feel like home. No grand adventures needed – just good crack with proper Cornish folk. Can’t wait to go back.