I’ll never forget the drive down to Thurlestone last summer – 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 laughed and snapped pics of our slow-motion slide towards a ditch. A classic Devon welcome, that – twenty minutes later, we were out, giggling like kids, and finally rolling up to this cosy little cottage tucked into the village, all whitewashed charm and flower baskets spilling over like they were auditioning for a postcard.

First impressions? Pure magic. The sea air hit us as we unpacked, salty and invigorating, with Salcombe estuary twinkling just down the hill. We’d been buzzing with anticipation on the motorway, dreaming of cream teas and cliff walks, and it didn’t disappoint. But honestly, what made the whole week weren’t the views or the private garden patio – it was the locals. Thurlestone’s got this knack for quirky characters who’d make you feel like you’ve gatecrashed a family reunion.

Take old Reg from the village shop, first morning. I popped in for milk and ended up with a full history lesson on the golf course’s “infamous” sheep that once wandered onto the greens during a tournament. “They’ve got more sense than the golfers, mind,” he winked, handing over a pasty the size of my forearm. Reg’s the sort who’s lived here sixty years, knows every tide time by heart, and reckons the best crab comes from the beach at low water – “none of that fancy restaurant malarkey.” We chatted for ages about his glory days smuggling contraband cider as a lad; proper storyteller, that one.

Then there was Miriam at the beach café, mid-afternoon on day two. She’s this whirlwind of a pensioner with a laugh like a foghorn, slinging crab sandwiches and dishing gossip faster than you can say “gull attack.” “Watch your chips, love – those ruddy birds are bolder than the tourists,” she cackled, pointing at a feathered thief eyeing my plate. Turned out she’d run the place since her husband retired from fishing, and over tea she regaled us with tales of the time a seal decided to sunbathe on the slipway, blocking all the boats. “Council had to call the coastguard – chaos!” Her stories had us in stitches, and she even slipped us a doggy bag of her secret-recipe sconces, jam-first naturally.

The real highlight, though, was bumping into Tom the fisherman down by the rocks on our last evening. He was mending pots, beard like a bird’s nest, and didn’t bat an eye when we asked about the best spots for bass. “Follow the gulls at dawn, but don’t tell the seals,” he grinned, before launching into a yarn about outrunning a pod of dolphins in his dinghy. “Thought they were auditioning for SeaWorld!” We sat there as the sun dipped, swapping stories – him about near-misses with trawlers, me admitting I once got stuck in quicksand on the marshes (true story, total embarrassment).

Looking back, it’s funny how a place like this sneaks up on you. I went for the holiday vibes, but came away with mates I’ll probably never see again, yet feel like old pals. Devon’s cottages are grand, but it’s the people – with their daft tales and easy warmth – that stick. If you’re fancying a break, hunt one down; just pack a towel for the sat-nav mishaps.