I’ll never forget the drive down to Salcombe – sat nav insisting we take some winding back road that turned out to be narrower than my nan’s grudges. Halfway there, we had a proper comedy moment: a rogue sheep decided our Fiat was its personal scratching post, leaving a lovely woolly dent on the wing mirror. Laughed it off, though, as the Devon lanes opened up to that glittering harbour view. Heart lifted instantly – you know that buzz when you’re finally somewhere special?

Pulled into the allocated parking spot (a godsend in this buzzing little town) and stepped up to our first-floor apartment. Sleek as a luxury yacht inside, all open-plan and clever space-saving, with floor-to-ceiling windows framing the harbour like a living postcard. Shared pool out back, pontoon mooring if you fancy a boat jaunt, and even a bistro on site – proper treat. But honestly, it was the locals who turned the holiday into gold.

First evening, we wandered down to the harbour for fish and chips from a van run by Madge, this wiry septuagenarian with a laugh like a foghorn. “You from up country?” she barked, wrapping our cod in yesterday’s Telegraph. Told her about the sheep incident; she cackled and said, “That’s Barry’s flock – he’s the one with the wonky eye who swears they’re all reincarnated pirates.” Proper character, Madge. Said she’d lived here 50 years, seen every yachtie posh-up and tourist faux pas. “Don’t go kayaking at low tide unless you want to chat with the crabs,” she winked. We didn’t, but her tales had us in stitches over supper on the balcony, watching the boats bob.

Next morning, poolside chat with Derek from the apartment below – retired fisherman turned “professional loafer,” as he put it. Sunning himself with a pint of ginger beer (at 10am, mind), he regaled us with yarns about the time a seal pinched his catch. “Cheeky blighter waved at me!” Turned out he’d skippered charters for celebs back in the day, but wouldn’t name-drop. “They’re all divs without their agents,” he chuckled. We ended up joining him for a gentle swim, him demonstrating his “world-famous” backstroke that looked more like a tipsy walrus. Made me reflect a bit – here I was, mid-40s office drone, faffing about emails, while Derek’s living the dream on his terms. Bit of a nudge to slow down, that.

Afternoon, popped into the bistro for crab sandwiches. Barman, young lad called Finn with a mop of curls and a Salcombe accent thick as clotted cream, overheard us chatting and pulled up a stool. “Right, you lot – quiz time. What’s the harbour’s deepest secret?” Turned out to be a WWII wreck just offshore, teeming with conger eels. Finn’s family had fished it for generations; he was saving for his own boat. “But don’t tell the council – they’d slap a preserve order on it.” His passion was infectious; we booked a sunset pontoon stroll with him next day, spotting oystercatchers and swapping daft riddles.

Even the laundry room threw up gems – chatted with wizened Mrs. Prowse folding her smalls, who claimed her cat predicted tides better than the BBC. “He sulks before a storm, see?” Pure quirk.

Left feeling like we’d made mates for life, not just ticked off a holiday list. Salcombe’s magic isn’t the views (stunning as they are) – it’s the folk who make it sing. Can’t wait to go back.