I’ll never forget the drive down to Devon – rain lashing the windscreen like it had a personal grudge, and then, just past Barnstaple, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us down a lane narrower than my waistline after Christmas. We ended up nose-to-tail with a sheepish farmer in a battered Land Rover, both of us gesturing wildly through steamed-up windows until he backed up with a grin and a thumbs-up. Heart racing but laughing, we finally rolled into Combe Martin, buzzing with that first glimpse of the sea peeking over the hills. The old farmhouse we’d booked was picture-perfect – a cosy, rambling spot with a welcoming glow from the windows, tucked just right for those North Devon vibes.

No sooner had we unpacked than we wandered down to the village high street, and that’s when the real magic kicked in. First up was Madge behind the counter at the tiny newsagent’s, a wiry septuagenarian with hair like steel wool and stories spilling out faster than her loose change. “You from up country, then?” she eyed me suspiciously, handing over a pasty that was still warm. I confessed to being a Londoner, and she launched into how the tourists always park like eejits, blocking her view of the Hangman Hills. “Last week, one chap from Bristol reversed into my bins – swore blind it was the seagulls’ fault!” We were in stitches, her cackle echoing as she pressed extra sausage rolls on us “for the journey back to civilisation.”

Later, strolling the crazy zig-zag Pack Horse Bridge – 370 steps, they say, enough to make you question your life choices – we bumped into Terry, the local fisherman with a beard like a Brillo pad and hands like hams. He was mending nets by the stream, regaling us with tales of the biggest crab he ever pulled from the bay. “Went this big, I’m not joking,” he stretched his arms wide enough to span a small car, eyes twinkling. “Sold it to the pub up the road – landlord said it was the best pint-puller he’d seen!” We chatted about the tides, the best spots for a quiet dip (avoid the jellyfish, apparently), and how he once swapped a lobster for a neighbour’s dodgy lawnmower. Proper character, Terry was – made you feel like you’d known him forever.

Evening brought us to the Pack of Cards Inn, where barman Reggie held court. Bald as a coot with a tattooed forearm that told its own saga, he poured our pints with flair and a wink. “Heard you met Madge? She’s the mayor round here, unofficially.” We swapped yarns about his ghost-hunting nights in the pub’s attic – “Saw a lady in white once, bold as brass, asking for a GandT” – and before long, half the locals were joining in, debating whether the Hangman’s ghost was friend or foe. One bloke, quiet at first, piped up about his nan’s secret scone recipe that “beats anything from the bakery,” and suddenly we were sampling them fresh from his flask.

Lying in bed that night, listening to the owls, I had a quiet moment thinking how these encounters – quirky, unfiltered, full of that Devon warmth – beat any fancy itinerary. In a world of screens and rush, chatting with Madge, Terry and Reggie felt like proper recharging. We left with full bellies, fuller hearts, and a promise to return. Devon’s people? They’re the holiday.