I’ll never forget the drive down to north Devon last summer – sat nav had me convinced we were nearly there, then it chucked us into a massive traffic snarl-up just past Barnstaple, all because of some rogue sheep blocking the road. Half an hour later, with me humming along to the radio to keep the kids from moaning, we finally rolled into Woolacombe, hearts lifting at the sight of those epic sandy beaches stretching out like a proper seaside dream. Spotting the cottage perched with those smashing sea views, I felt that proper holiday buzz kick in straight away.

It’s one of those cosy family spots, all welcoming and lived-in, right in the thick of things near the beach. First impressions? Spot on – we dumped the bags, cracked open a brew, and wandered down to the waves, toes in the sand before tea even. But honestly, what made the whole week weren’t the views or the pasties (though they were cracking), it was the proper characters we bumped into. Devon’s full of ‘em, those quirky locals with stories that’d make you chuckle into your pint.

Take old Reg from the beach café, first morning. We’re queuing for cream teas – jam first, obviously – and he’s regaling everyone with tales of surfing in the ‘70s, back when Woolacombe was “just a bunch of hippies and seals.” He reckoned he once rode a wave so big it spat him out near the lighthouse, then blamed it on a dodgy pasty. “Never trust a scone after noon,” he winked, handing over my change with a grin. Proper legend, Reg – had the kids in stitches, and me reflecting on how I’ve turned into the sort of dad who’d rather chat than chase waves myself these days.

Then there was Maggie at the village shop, a tiny firecracker who runs the place like it’s her personal soap opera. Popped in for milk and ended up hearing her epic saga about the time a seal pinched her best fishing rod. “Cheeky blighter waved it at me from the rocks!” she cackled, eyes twinkling. She twisted my arm into buying her homemade fudge – “none of that shop-bought rubbish” – and we got chatting about how the tourists keep the place buzzing but it’s the locals who make it home. Made me think, doesn’t it? We dash about life back in the Midlands, missing these random yarns that stick with you.

Evenings, we’d stroll to the pub near Morte Point, where grizzled fisherman-type Tom held court by the bar. Over a shandy, he spun yarns about spotting dolphins from the cliffs – “right pair of show-offs, flipping about like they own the bay.” One night, he roped us into a silly quiz, where his team of mates trounced us with obscure facts about local smugglers. “You lot are all right for townies,” he laughed, buying the next round. Those chats, laced with that dry Devon wit, turned a simple holiday into something golden.

By the end of the week, packing up felt a wrench – not just leaving the sea air, but those faces you’d never see again yet somehow felt like mates. Reg waved us off with a “come back for the seals’ birthday bash!” and Maggie slipped extra fudge in my bag. Driving home, I pondered how a bit of patience with sheep traffic led to the best bit: real people, real laughs. Devon does that to you. Can’t wait to go back.