I’ll never forget the drive down to Appledore – sat nav had us twisting through those narrow Devon lanes like we were in a dodgy episode of The Dukes of Hazzard. Just past Bideford, we had a proper comedy moment: a rogue sheep decided our hire car was its personal chariot and leapt right in front of us. Heart in mouth, emergency stop, and there it was, staring us down like we’d gatecrashed its picnic. No harm done, but it set the tone for a holiday full of unexpected characters.

Pulling up to this cracking reverse-level house, I was buzzing with that arrival anticipation – you know, that mix of “please don’t let it be a dump” and dreams of cracking open a cold one with estuary views. First impressions? Spot on. Perched just half a mile from the quayside, it’s got these enviable sea vistas that make you feel like you’ve won the lottery, and inside it’s all first-class comfort, perfect for our rabble of family and mates. We dumped the bags and legged it down to the quay, proper excited.

Right away, we bumped into Mick, the king of the ice cream van – Hockings, award-winning stuff that lives up to the hype. He’s this wiry chap with a beard like a Brillo pad, doling out 99s while regaling us with tales of the estuary’s smuggling heyday. “Lads back then hid rum in the crab pots,” he winked, handing over a cornet that was pure heaven on a hot day. We got chatting about crabbing off the quay – he swore by cheese as bait, not bacon like the tourists use. Half an hour later, we were knee-deep in buckets, giggling as tiny crabs scuttled about. Mick reckoned the best ones hide under the boats; he wasn’t wrong.

Next day, strolling the quay’s galleries and that brilliant deli, we met Vera, the octogenarian artist with paint-flecked wellies and a laugh like a foghorn. She’s been capturing Appledore’s fishing boats on canvas for decades. “You lot from up country?” she asked, eyeing our accents. Over a pasty (her recommendation: the deli’s sausage and cider one), she spun yarns about the summer ferry to Instow’s dog-friendly beach. “Take the missus over, watch the surfers wipe out – comedy gold!” We did, and she was spot on; sandy toes, pub lunch, and a ferry ride that felt like nicking a postcard.

Even the locals at the quayside pubs had us in stitches. There was Dave, the retired skipper nursing a pint, who challenged us to name more boats on the estuary than him. Spoiler: we lost, but not before he shared his secret pasty-filling hack involving clotted cream. “Don’t knock it till you try it,” he grinned. And then Skern Lodge next door – popped in for a nosey, met young Tom, the adventure guide with a tattooed arm and endless energy. He convinced the kids (and me, the reluctant uncle) for a coastal walk along the South West Coast Path. “Mind the jellyfish,” he joked, pointing out Northam Burrows in the distance.

Staying here made me reflect a bit – amid the laughs and quirky chats, it hit me how these places recharge you. Away from the grind, just proper folk, estuary breezes, and stories that stick. If you’re after a holiday that’s more about the characters than the checklist, this corner of Devon’s pure magic. We’re already plotting a return.