We’d barely turned off the main road towards Combe Martin when the satnav decided we were already at The Old Barn and told us to “arrive at destination on left.” Naturally we pulled straight into someone’s driveway, only to be greeted by a chap in wellies holding a mug of tea and looking thoroughly unimpressed. “You’re after the old barn, are you?” he said, pointing back the way we’d come. “That’s two fields that way—unless you fancy helping me shift these sheep first.” Five minutes and several apologies later we were back on the lane, faces pink, and already wondering what else Devon had in store.

The lane narrowed to a single track bordered by high hedges, and every time we met another car we had the same polite standoff—both reversing until one of us found a gateway. By the time we reached the cottage itself, tucked just above the pebble beach, the sun was sliding behind the cliffs and everything smelled of salt and warm grass. Our host, a woman called Maureen who’d lived in the village “since the Queen had proper hair,” met us at the gate with a basket of eggs and the sort of brisk cheer that suggested she’d already decided we needed feeding up.

While we unloaded the car she told us about the time a coach party got lost looking for the coastal path and ended up in her kitchen demanding directions and cake. “I gave them both,” she said, “but only because they admired the hydrangeas.” Her neighbour, a retired fisherman everyone calls Captain, wandered over with a collie at his heels and immediately offered to show us the best rock-pooling spot “before the tide tells you off.” Within ten minutes we’d learnt that the tide here moves faster than most people’s patience and that the little cove below the cottage is where half the village learned to swim.

Later, popping to the corner shop for milk, we met Linda behind the counter who asked if we were “the ones who reversed into Trevor’s hydrangeas.” News clearly travels quicker than the bus along this stretch of coast. She slipped us an extra packet of biscuits “for the shock” and warned us that the seagulls round here have no respect for personal space. Sure enough, when we sat on the bench outside with our tea, one landed on the armrest and stared until we offered it a crumb.

That evening, as the light faded and the waves hushed against the shingle, I found myself thinking how quickly a wrong turning and a few nosy locals can turn strangers into something that feels oddly like belonging. We’d only just arrived, yet already the place had more personality than any glossy brochure could promise—and we hadn’t even unpacked the wellies yet.