I’ll never forget the drive down to Torcross last month – we’d packed the car to the brim with wellies, pasties, and enough crisps to siege a castle, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into a muddy lane that looked like it hadn’t seen tarmac since the war. There I was, white-knuckling the wheel while my other half yelled about missing the turning for Start Bay, and just as I’m about to have a proper paddy, we pop out right by the beach. Heart still racing, but oh my word, what a first glimpse: waves crashing metres away, that fresh sea air hitting you like a tonic. And there was the property, originally built to house the horse-drawn carriages of posh Victorian sorts visiting the old Tor Hotel back in the mid to late 1800s, now done up beautifully as this stylish seaside home. Proper unique spot, it felt like stepping into someone’s lucky dip of history and luxury.

No sooner had we unloaded than we wandered down to the beach for a cuppa from the local hut, and that’s where I met Madge. She’s the queen of the crab sandwiches there, must be pushing 80 with a fag perpetually dangling from her lip and stories longer than a Devon summer. “You from up country, love?” she squints, handing over a flask of tea strong enough to strip paint. I nod, and she’s off: tales of dodging U-boats off the bay during the war, how her grandad used to wrestle seals for fun, and why you should never trust a mackerel that’s smiling at you. I’m doubled over laughing, spilling tea on my trainers, thinking this is holiday gold – who needs Netflix when you’ve got Madge?

Next day, strolling along the coastal path towards Beesands – all shingle crunching underfoot and gulls having a right old chinwag overhead – we bump into Terry the fisherman. He’s knee-deep in his boat, hauling pots like he’s auditioning for a pirate film, with a beard that could hide a family of otters. “Caught any monsters today?” I ask, and he grins, revealing a gold tooth. Turns out he’s the village oracle on everything from best tide for bass to why the pub’s dart team hasn’t lost since ’89. Over a shared pasty (his tip: slather with proper Devon clotted cream), he regales us with yarns about the time a whale washed up and the whole hamlet turned out with buckets, plus his ongoing feud with the seagulls he calls “aerial pickpockets”. Bloke’s a walking sitcom.

Evenings were for the local inn, where barman Pete – all tattoos and twinkly eyes – pulled pints and dispensed wisdom on spotting smugglers’ coves nearby. “Locals only spot, that,” he winked, sharing how his nan once hid a shipload of brandy under the church. We chatted till closing, swapping daft hypotheticals about what you’d do if a mermaid turned up asking for chips.

Looking back, it wasn’t the views or the fancy digs that made it – though they were cracking – it was these characters, the quirky souls who make Devon feel like one big, warm hug. Made me reflect on how we rush about up north; down here, time bends for a natter. Can’t wait to go back and see what mischief Madge is up to next.