I’ll never forget the drive down to that tucked-away spot in Devon – we’d set off from Bristol full of beans, playlist blasting folk tunes, only for the sat-nav to chuck a wobbly just past Tiverton. It rerouted us down a lane so narrow I was convinced we’d end up scraping the hedges off like a dodgy bumper car. “This better be worth it,” I muttered to my other half, as we inched along, but honestly, that little mishap just amped up the anticipation. When we finally pulled up, the place hit us like a warm hug: this gorgeous 17th-century barn conversion, all lovingly done up with a quirky charm, plonked in the heart of rolling countryside that stretched out like a proper Devon postcard. First impressions? Spot on – safe, pet-friendly haven with views that made you want to kick off your shoes right there.

We’d barely unpacked when old Mrs. Jenkins from the neighbouring farm popped over with a jug of her homemade scrumpy. “Welcome, loves! You look like you could use a proper drink after that road,” she chuckled, her cheeks rosy as the apples she pressed it from. She was a right character, widowed twice over but still running her smallholding with a flock of cheeky Exmoor ponies that’d nick your socks given half a chance. Over a glass (or two), she regaled us with tales of the village ghost – a mischievous hayloft spirit that supposedly tidies up after messy visitors. “Don’t leave your wellies out, or they’ll be polished by morning!” We laughed, but I half-wondered if she’d snuck in later for a tidy-up herself.

Next day, strolling the lanes towards Bampton – just a hop away at 6.2 miles – we bumped into Tommo, the local postie on his battered bike. He screeched to a halt, helmet askew, and insisted we try his nan’s pasty from the farm shop. “None of that shop-bought rubbish – this’ll set you right!” Proper hero, Tommo was, with stories of delivering post through blizzards and spotting otters in the river. He reckoned the best pub grub was at the local, where the landlord, Big Dave, pulls pints like he’s arm-wrestling them. We headed there that evening, and sure enough, Dave was behind the bar, a bear of a man with a laugh that rattled the beams. “First time in these parts? You’re in for it – we’ve got morris dancers practising out back next week!” He poured us a round and chatted about his prize-winning marrow from the village show, nearly as big as his ego.

Those chats were the real magic, weren’t they? Made the fully kitted kitchen feel even cosier for knocking up spag bol, and sinking into the lounge’s L-shaped sofa with the dog sprawled on a bean bag was pure bliss after laughing till our sides hurt. One quiet moment, gazing out at the hills from the master bedroom’s en-suite view, I caught myself thinking: in our rush-rush lives back home, we forget how these quirky souls keep places like this alive. Devon’s not just scenery; it’s the people who make you feel like you’ve stumbled into family. We left with full bellies, fuller hearts, and a promise to Tommo we’d be back for the morris dancing. Best holiday detour ever.