I’ll never forget the drive down to Salcombe – rain lashing the windscreen like it had a personal grudge, and then, just past Kingsbridge, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us down a narrow lane that was more puddle than path. We ended up with the car half-stuck in mud, laughing hysterically as we pushed it free, covered in Devon’s finest clay. But oh, the anticipation built as we crested the hill – there it was, this privately positioned coastal house perched high above the town, all elegant lounges and panoramic views that hit you like a proper jaw-dropper. First impressions? Bloody marvellous, even if I’m saying that quietly.

We’d barely unpacked when we wandered into Salcombe for provisions, and that’s when the real characters started popping up. First off was Mick, the chap at the harbour-side fishmonger with a beard like a bird’s nest and stories for days. “You lot from up country?” he grinned, weighing out some glistening mackerel. I nodded, and he launched into how he once hooked a bass so big it towed his boat halfway to France – or at least to Bolt Head, which felt close enough. We chatted about the barbecues he hosts on the beach at low tide, swapping tips on the best spots for sunset paddles. His laugh was infectious; made you feel like you’d known him forever.

Next day, hiking along the coastal path towards East Portlemouth – just a breezy stroll away – we bumped into Doris, a wiry local in wellies, walking her ancient Labrador, Sid. She reckoned she’d lived here 50 years, knew every smuggler’s cove from North Sands to South Sands. “Don’t go chasing seals at dusk,” she warned with a wink, “they’re naughtier than the tourists.” We ended up perched on a bench, her sharing tales of the old smuggling days when contraband rum washed up after storms, and me confessing I’d once tried (and failed) to bodyboard here as a kid. Her gentle ribbing about my “city legs” had us in stitches, and Sid even deigned to let me scratch his ears.

Evenings back at the house were pure magic, lounging in those generous spaces with mates, the games room turning into a riot of Jenga collapses and dodgy darts. One night, popping to the local pub in town, we met Barry, the barman with a tattooed forearm and a fund of one-liners. “What’s your poison?” he asked, pulling pints. Turned out he’d crewed on fishing boats out of Salcombe harbour for decades, regaling us with yarns about dodging jellyfish blooms and the time a pod of dolphins photobombed a wedding shoot off Sharpitor. His take on holidaymakers? “You’re all the same – arrive knackered, leave salty and smiling.”

Chatting with these folks made the trip, really. They’re the quirky heartbeat of the place, turning a fancy coastal retreat into something properly alive. Made me reflect a bit, too – rushing about in London, I forget how a natter with strangers can recharge you more than any view. We left with full bellies, fuller hearts, and a promise to return for more of that Salcombe magic.