I’ll never forget the drive down to Woolacombe – sat nav insisting we take some winding back lane that turned out to be more pothole than path. We were bouncing along in our overloaded estate car, kids in the back moaning about the delay, when – splat! – a rogue seagull decided to redecorate the windscreen. Laughing through the chaos, we pulled over for a quick wipe-down with a pack of baby wipes, and carried on, the anticipation building as the North Devon coastline finally came into view. If you’re craving sea breezes, sandy beaches and windswept walks through outstanding scenery, this is the spot.

Pulling up to the luxury apartment, my heart did a little flip – it was even better than the photos, all sleek and welcoming with that perfect seaside vibe, just 400 metres from the three-mile stretch of golden sand. We dumped the bags and headed straight out, buzzing with that first-holiday glow. Little did we know, the real magic of the place would come from the quirky locals we bumped into over the next few days.

First up was Dave, the chap running the paddleboard hire right on the beach. Greying beard, weather-beaten face, and a grin wider than the tide. “New to Woolacombe, eh? Don’t worry, love, these boards’ll sort you out – just don’t let the kids paddle out to Lundy!” he chuckled, handing over the gear with a wink. Turned out Dave’s been here since the ‘70s, surfing the waves when the beach was just a handful of fishermen. We spent the afternoon wobbling about on the water, him shouting tips from the shore: “Knees bent, like you’re dancing with your nan!” The kids loved it, and I had a proper go at standing up without toppling – pure family fun, with Dave’s banter keeping us in stitches.

Next day, strolling to the independent shops that same short walk away, we met Madge behind the counter at the little bakery. She’s tiny, with hair like steel wool and stories for days. “Ooh, you from up country? Try the pasty – made with my gran’s recipe, been feeding holidaymakers since before you were born!” Over a cream tea that was more chat than scoffing, she regaled us with tales of the village’s smuggling past – “Hidey-holes under the pub floorboards, still there if you know where to look!” – eyes twinkling like she’d done it herself. Couldn’t help but linger, soaking up her warmth.

Evenings were for the traditional pubs, where we fell into conversation with Tom, the barman at one just down the road. Proper North Devon character, with a limp from “a scrap with a bullock back in ’98” and opinions on everything from the best beach for crabbing (right here, obviously) to why the sea air cures all ailments. “One pint of bitter, and you’ll be right as rain,” he declared, pulling ours with theatrical flair. We swapped laughs about our seagull mishap, and he topped it with his own: “Once had a cow wander in during a storm – milked it for the regulars!”

Chatting with these folks made the holiday – they’re the heartbeat of Woolacombe, turning a simple break into something special. Two bedrooms made it spot-on for us, cosy nights in after days out. Lying there one evening, listening to the waves, I had a quiet moment thinking how rushing through life back home robs you of these gems. If you’re after a Devon seaside escape with brilliant company and endless smiles, this apartment’s your ticket. We’re already plotting a return.