I’ll never forget the drive down to Bigbury-on-Sea – sat nav insisting we take a cheeky shortcut through some narrow lanes that turned out to be more like goat tracks. We ended up with a puncture from what I swear was a rogue tractor part, right in the middle of nowhere. Me and the other half faffing about with the spare wheel, covered in mud, while a couple of passing cyclists gave us sympathetic waves. Half an hour later, we were back on track, hearts racing a bit, but buzzing with that proper holiday anticipation. You know, the kind where you imagine cream teas and sea views waiting just around the corner.

Pulling up to the quaint little apartment, my first impressions were spot on – it had this cosy, tucked-away charm, all whitewashed and perfectly perched for those South Devon vibes. The sea was practically winking at us from across the bay, and I could already smell the salt in the air. We dumped the bags and headed straight out, eager to soak it all in.

First character we bumped into was Madge, the chip shop lady down by the beach. She’s this wiry septuagenarian with a perm that defies gravity and stories for days. “You from up country?” she asked, eyeing our London plates while battering up some fresh cod. I nodded, and she launched into how the Burgh Island tractor – that tractor that ferries folk across at high tide – once saved her cat from a riptide. “Bloomin’ hero, that driver is,” she cackled, handing over our supper wrapped in yesterday’s news. We chatted about her glory days entering the village baking comps, only to lose out to “that sneaky Gladys with her cheat nan’s scone recipe.” Proper local lore, and her chips were the crispiest I’ve had in ages. Couldn’t stop grinning.

Next day, strolling along the beach, we met Terry, the retired fisherman mending nets near the dunes. He’s got a face like a weathered barnacle and a laugh that echoes off the waves. “Mind the jellyfish, love – they’re partial to city feet,” he warned me with a wink, before regaling us with tales of smuggling brandy back in the day. Not that he admitted to partaking, mind. “All rumour, that is,” he chuckled, but his eyes twinkled. We ended up sharing a thermos of his strong tea, listening to him wax lyrical about the best crab pots and why avocados have no place in a proper pasty. Bloke’s a walking Devon encyclopaedia.

Then there was young Ollie, the surf shop kid with neon hair and a thick South Hams accent. He cornered us outside the apartment, desperate to offload a lesson. “Tide’s perfect today – you’ll be shreddin’ like a pro!” Turned out he was saving for his first board, and his enthusiasm was infectious. We watched him demo a few moves instead, him yelling encouragements over the breakers. “Next time, yeah? Don’t be wimps!”

Those chats were the holiday’s heartbeat, really. Made me pause one evening, pint in hand on the balcony, reflecting on how we city folk rush about, missing these gems. Proper characters, the lot of them – quirky, kind, and full of that unfiltered Devon spirit. Left us plotting a return already. What a tonic.