I’ll never forget the drive down to Devon – sat nav insisting we take some winding back lane near Honiton, only for us to end up behind a rogue sheep that decided the middle of the road was prime grazing spot. Twenty minutes of gentle honking later, we’re laughing our heads off, windows down, munching pasties from a service station. By the time we pulled up to this cracking 12-person, pet-friendly holiday home in Weston, my anticipation was through the roof. What a first impression – immense luxury spilling out everywhere, simply stunning indoors and out, with a private hot tub begging for a splash and views from every window that screamed Devonshire heaven. Next to a vineyard and that farm shop stocked with gins, wines and preserves? Proper indulgence central.

We’d barely unpacked when the quirky locals started appearing, like they’d been waiting for fresh faces. First up was old Reg from the adjacent farm, popping over with a welcoming jar of his homemade blackberry gin. “Made it meself, luv,” he grinned, eyes twinkling under a flat cap that looked older than the hills. “None of that shop-bought rubbish – this’ll put hairs on your chest!” We chuckled, and over a tasting in the garden (dogs going mental with excitement), he regaled us with tales of the vineyard next door. “Them grapes? They’re finicky buggers, but pair ‘em with a roast and you’re sorted.” Reg’s the sort who’d chat the hind leg off a donkey, but in the best way – by the end, we’d promised to swing by his stall at the Sidmouth market for more of his preserves.

Then there was Tina, the postie who doubled as the village gossip hub. She delivered a stray parcel (ours, funnily enough) and stayed for half an hour, perched on our terrace with a cuppa. “Heard you lot piled in with three cars – reckon you’ve doubled the population!” she laughed, sharing whispers about the local ghost sightings near Awliscombe’s old pub. “Mind the lanes at dusk; that’s when old Farmer Giles wanders, or so they say.” Her stories had us in stitches, especially the one about the time the vineyard owner entered a cow in the Ottery ploughing match by mistake. Tina’s energy was infectious – proper Devonian warmth that makes you feel like family straight away.

The next day, we wandered to the farm shop and bumped into Miriam, the vineyard lady herself, mid-harvest chat with a couple of her pickers. She waved us over, thrusting glasses of crisp white into our hands. “Try this – straight from the vines you can see from your hot tub!” Over impromptu tastings, she spun yarns about the quirky wine festivals down in the East Devon valleys, and how her pet llama once gatecrashed a wedding party. “He’s a right character, that one – thinks he’s the king of the vineyard.” We spent the afternoon there, swapping laughs and tips on nearby walks along the Otter Valley trails.

Staring out at those rolling views one evening, hot tub bubbling away with the dogs splashing about, I had a quiet moment of self-reflection. Amid all the chatter and characters, it hit me how these random encounters make a holiday – not just the luxury, but the living, breathing stories of the people who call this patch home. Devon doesn’t do half-measures; it throws you right into its beating heart, one gin-soaked tale at a time. We left with full bellies, fuller hearts, and a promise to Reg we’d be back for more.