I’ll never forget the drive down to that tucked-away cottage in Devon – satnav had me convinced I was lost in the middle of nowhere after taking a wrong turn near Crediton, ending up on a lane so narrow I was convinced the hedges were plotting to scratch my wing mirrors. But honestly, it added to the anticipation; by the time I bumped along that private driveway, shared just with the owners’ place next door, I was buzzing to see what lay ahead. Pulling up, the first impressions were spot on: this character-listed cottage felt like a proper cosy hideaway, all charm and welcome, right on the edge of Dartmoor’s wild embrace.

No sooner had I unpacked than I met Pete, one of the owners, pottering about with his border collie, Sid. He’s the sort of chap who looks like he’s stepped out of a countryside sitcom – tweed cap, wellies caked in mud, and a grin wider than the moor itself. “Fancy a cuppa?” he bellowed, before I’d even said hello. Over tea in his kitchen, he regaled me with tales of Dartmoor’s “hairy beasts” – the wild ponies that roam free, and how Sid once tried herding one right into a tourist’s picnic. I couldn’t stop laughing; Pete’s got this deadpan humour, warning me not to “feed the tor-toppled myths” if I went hiking the 4 miles to the national park. Turned out he’d been born in the next village, knows every quirky corner.

Next day, I wandered into Okehampton, just 11 miles off but feeling like a proper local jaunt. Popped into the butcher’s for some pasties, and there was Madge behind the counter – feisty pensioner with stories that’d make your eyes water. “You staying at that cottage driveway place?” she clocked me straight away. “Good on ya, love. Our Pete’s lot are gems, but mind the foxes at night – they’ve got voices like banshees!” She spent ten minutes on her feud with the postman who “drives like he’s evading the fuzz,” complete with impressions that had the queue in stitches. Grabbed a coffee at the café next door, where barista Tom – a lanky lad with a man-bun – quizzed me on Exeter plans. “Underground passages? Skip the tourists, ask for the ghost tour; our gran swears she saw Jack the Ripper down there.” Cheeky sod, but his enthusiasm for a car-free train hop to the city (direct from Okehampton station) had me sold.

Back at the cottage, I bumped into the other guests – a family from Bristol – and we ended up swapping yarns over a shared sunset view. Their kids were obsessed with Dartmoor’s “misty monsters,” courtesy of Pete’s embellished legends. Even nipped to the Crediton Leisure Centre, 7 miles away, for a swim, where the lifeguard, cheeky Dave, reckoned the pool was “haunted by Victorian swimmers who forgot their trunks.” Pure gold.

Reflecting on it now, holidays like this aren’t about ticking off sights; it’s the characters – Pete’s warmth, Madge’s fire, Tom’s banter – that stick. They turned a simple Devon getaway into a proper laugh-fest, reminding me to chat more with strangers back home. If you’re after tranquillity laced with proper human spark, this spot’s a belter. Can’t wait to go back.