I’ll never forget the drive down to that holiday spot just outside Tawstock – the sat-nav decided to have a midlife crisis right as we hit the A361, sending us on a daft detour through some narrow lanes that made our little hatchback feel like a tank in a doll’s house. We ended up with a puncture from what I swear was a rogue sheep’s hoof, but after a quick fix at a barn garage run by a chap called Reg – all mutton chops and flat cap – we were back on track, buzzing with that proper holiday anticipation. Barnstaple was just a short hop away, and as we pulled up to the estate, my first impressions were spot on: nine cosy holiday cottages dotted around a grand Georgian country house that screamed family fun, with grounds that looked made for mischief.

We’d booked one of the cottages for a week with the kids and my sister’s lot, perfect for our rabble. The place had everything – an all-weather tennis court where the little ones could burn off steam, an adventure play area that had them whooping for hours, and indoors, a cracking swimming pool and spa bath for when Devon’s weather does its typical sulk. Evenings? Sorted with a cinema room and pool table for lazy film nights or showdowns. But honestly, it was the locals who turned it into pure gold. North Devon’s got characters like you wouldn’t believe, and they wandered into our holiday like extras from a sitcom.

First off was Pete from the farm up the lane, who rocked up on day two with a tray of his “famous” scones – heavy as house bricks but with a heart of gold story about how his nan taught him during the war. Over tea on the terrace, he regaled us with tales of the Tawstock court leet, some ancient local jury that still fines folk for letting cows wander. “You lot from up country?” he winked, eyeing our London plates. “Don’t worry, we won’t fine you for the tennis – long as you don’t nick our Exmoor ponies!” We were in stitches, and it sparked a gentle think for me: how often do we city types miss these proper chats that make you feel alive?

Then there was Maggie at the Barnstaple Pannier Market, a five-minute drive away. She runs a stall piled high with clotted cream and pasties, and when I confessed my rubbish attempt at a cream tea back home, she grabbed my arm: “Love, jam first, then cream – or you’re no Devonian!” Her laugh was infectious, and she slipped us tips on hidden spots like the Tarka Trail for bike rides, rabbiting on about spotting otters with her grandkids. “Corffe’s lot are family now,” she said. “Weddings there every summer – blokes in kilts proposing by the pool!”

Even at the beach – Woolacombe’s just a jaunty drive – we bumped into surfer Dave, who’d clocked our estate plates. “Staying at the big house place? Smart choice. Last lot had a pool tournament that went till dawn. Watch out for the spa bath – turns you into a prune but sorts the soul!” His yarn about outrunning a cow on Croyde sands had us howling.

Those quirky souls – with their thick accents, endless yarns, and zero pretence – made the whole trip. Sat there one evening, pool cue in hand, kids splashing about, I reflected on how a simple hello opens doors you didn’t know were there. Devon doesn’t just have views; it’s got people who stick with you long after the drive home. Can’t wait to go back.