I’ll never forget the drive down to Putsborough – sat nav insisting we take some winding back lane that turned into a proper muddle when a sheep decided to block the road. There we were, me and the family, crammed in the car with half-eaten pasties from the services, honking gently while this woolly bugger just stared us down like he owned the place. Took a good 10 minutes of patient coaxing from a local farmer before we were on our way again, laughing about it all the way to the door.

Pulling up to our splendid apartment above the beach, I was buzzing with that proper holiday anticipation – you know, the kind where you imagine lazy days ahead without a care. First impressions? Spot on. Perched just 150 metres from the sand, with those golden stretches merging into Woolacombe, it felt like our own little hideaway. Two bedrooms for the four of us, perfect for beach-lovers and walkers, right on the doorstep of the South West Coast Path. We dumped the bags and headed straight down for a paddle, toes in the waves, grinning like idiots.

But the real magic? The characters we met. First up was old Reg, the chap who runs the pop-up van at the beach car park. Must be pushing 70, with a beard like a Brillo pad and stories for days. “You lot from up country?” he asked, handing over cream teas that were still warm. Turned out he’d surfed these waves since the ‘60s, back when Woolacombe was just a handful of hippies. We got chatting about the best spots for a dip – he swore by the cove at low tide, away from the surf schools. “Don’t mind the seals,” he winked. “They’re nosier than my ex-wife.” Cracked us up, and we ended up buying his homemade fudge just to keep him talking.

Then there was Jenny from Georgeham, barely 1.5 miles up the road. We bumped into her on the Coast Path the next morning, kitted out in wellies and a bobble hat, striding like she was on a mission. She’d lived here 40 years, knew every inch of the Tarka Trail. “Fancy a cycle?” she said, spotting our trainers. Before we knew it, she’d texted her mate at the bike hire in nearby Croyde Bay to sort us out. Over a thermos of tea on a bench overlooking the sea, she regaled us with tales of quirky locals – like the bloke who swims year-round in nothing but Speedos, winter gales or not. “Calls himself the North Devon Neoprene Nutter,” she chuckled. Her enthusiasm was infectious; we laced up and followed her along the path, spotting foxes and buzzards, feeling like proper explorers.

Even at Croyde Bay, just down the lane, we met Madge behind the counter at the beach café. She’d clocked our accents straight away. “Londoners, eh? You’ll love it here – no traffic, just tides.” She dished out pasties and surfing tips, insisting we try the gentle rollers before Woolacombe’s big waves. Her laugh was pure sunshine, and she even shared a quiet word about slowing down. “Life’s too short for rushing,” she said, eyeing my phone. Made me reflect a bit – here I was, always chasing the next thing, but chatting with these folks reminded me holidays are for proper connections, not just Instagram shots.

By the end of the week, we’d waved goodbye to Reg, Jenny and Madge like old mates, promising to return. That apartment wasn’t just a base – it was the gateway to the best characters in North Devon. Proper tonic for the soul.