I’ll never forget the drive down to our holiday cottage near Bideford – we’d set off from Bristol full of beans, but halfway there, the sat nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us down a narrow lane that was more tractor track than road. There we were, inching along with hedges scraping the sides of the car, me gripping the wheel like my life depended on it, while my other half chuckled about how this was “proper Devon adventure”. We emerged scratched but laughing, and as we pulled up to the cosy little cottage – all low-roofed charm with a welcoming garden – my heart lifted. It was even better than the photos, nestled perfectly for pottering around North Devon.

First impressions? Spot on. The garden overlooked rolling countryside, and you could practically smell the sea air. But it was the locals who turned our stay into pure gold. Take old Reg from the village pub in Woolsery, just a short stroll away. We wandered in on day one, parched after unpacking, and he was holding court at the bar, regaling a couple of farmers with tales of the time he “nearly caught a shark off Hartland Point”. “Nearly?” I piped up, and he winked, “Aye, lad, but it turned out to be me own wellies floating back after a pint too many!” We spent the evening swapping stories, him insisting we try his favourite pasty from the shop down the lane – “None of that tourist rubbish, mind, proper job from Woolsery bakery.”

Next day, we headed to Clovelly, that bonkers village with its cobbled steps steeper than a climber’s ambition. En route, we bumped into Doris, a sprightly septuagenarian walking her donkey (yes, really – they use ’em to haul carts up those hills). She clocked our accents and launched into how her gran smuggled rum during the war up those very paths. “You city folk think it’s quaint now,” she said with a mischievous grin, “but try it in the blackout!” We chatted for ages, her feeding us tips on the best cove for crab fishing, and by the end, she’d roped us into promising we’d pop back with photos of our haul.

The characters kept coming. At the beach near Westward Ho!, we met surfer bloke called Gaz, all windswept hair and wetsuit tan lines, who reckoned he’d wiped out more times than he’d stood up that morning. “North Devon waves’ll sort the men from the boys,” he laughed, before sharing his secret spot for a post-surf cream tea – “Don’t tell the Braunton lot, they’re proper jealous.” Even at RHS Rosemoor Gardens, where we sought a bit of calm amid the roses, there was chatty Tom the gardener, pruning away while muttering about “that daft fox what nicks me tools”. He reckoned the Milky Way theme park up the road was “brilliant for grandkids, but mind the aliens – they’re sneakier than Clovelly’s donkeys!”

It got me reflecting, sat in that garden one evening with a cuppa, watching the sun dip over the fields. In the rush of everyday life back home, you forget how a quick natter with quirky folk like Reg, Doris, Gaz and Tom can recharge your batteries more than any fancy spa. No grand plans needed – just good company, a pint or two, and the hum of Devon life. We left buzzing, already plotting a return. Proper tonic, that was.