I’ll never forget the drive down to Instow – we’d piled into the car in Bristol full of excitement, snacks strewn everywhere, but about halfway there, disaster struck. The satnav decided to have a midlife crisis and sent us on a wild detour through some narrow lanes that made me question every life choice leading to that moment. We ended up stuck behind a tractor chugging along at snail’s pace, with the driver giving us a cheery wave like it was all part of the fun. By the time we rolled up to our contemporary four-bedroom holiday home, we were knackered but buzzing with anticipation. What a first impression, though – this place was a proper treat, all sleek and stylish, sleeping us eight mates perfectly with a private hot tub, games room, bar, media wall in the lounge, and Smart TVs in every bedroom. Just half a mile from Instow’s sandy beach, and that quick ferry hop to Appledore in high season? Dreamy.

We barely unpacked before heading out, and that’s when the real magic kicked in – the quirky locals. First up was Mick, the ferryman over to Appledore. Bloke’s got stories for days, leaning on the railing with his pipe (yes, really) recounting how he once ferried a celebrity chef who tried cooking crab on the boat mid-crossing. “Nearly set the whole thing ablaze, he did!” Mick chuckled, eyes twinkling. We laughed so hard we nearly missed our stop, and he slipped us a tip on the best crab shack there – proper fresh, straight-off-the-boat stuff. Over in Appledore, we bumped into Doris at the village bakery. She’s this tiny dynamo in her eighties, apron dusted with flour, insisting we try her “special” pasties. “None of that chain rubbish,” she huffed, “made with love and a dash of my secret spice.” Turned out her secret was just extra pepper, but chatting with her about the old smuggling days – whispers of tunnels under the pubs – had us hooked. She even roped us into judging a pasty-eating contest with some lads from the pub, where one fella, Dave, demolished three in under five minutes and claimed it was “training for the beach Olympics.”

Back at the house, the hot tub became our hub for debriefs, bubbles fizzing as we swapped tales. Then there was Barry, the beachside ice cream vendor just down from the property. He’s got this wild beard and a van painted like a pirate ship, doling out 99s while regaling us with ghost stories about Instow’s sands. “Seen the lady in white at dusk, I have,” he swore, waggling his cone like a wizard’s wand. We didn’t spot her, but his yarns kept us out till the sun dipped, toes in the sand.

Looking back, it wasn’t just the luxe setup or the beach strolls that made it – it was these characters, turning a simple holiday into a proper yarn fest. I caught myself one evening in the games room, pint in hand, thinking how we city folk rush about, missing this easy chat. Made me vow to slow down more. If you’re after a group getaway with laughs and locals who feel like old mates, Instow’s your spot. We’re already plotting a return.