I’ll never forget the drive down to Weymouth – sat nav had me convinced I’d make it in under three hours, but no, a cheeky diversion thanks to roadworks near Dorchester turned it into a proper faff. Picture me, white-knuckling the wheel past endless Jurassic Coast signs, humming along to the radio while secretly panicking about arriving late. But as I finally trundled into Brewers Quay Harbour, that stress melted away. There it was, this characterful holiday home perched right on the water’s edge, its balcony already promising cracking views of the bobbing boats and the town’s higgledy-piggledy rooftops. First impressions? Spot on – felt like stepping into someone’s cosy dream pad, all inviting and full of charm.

Inside, the open-plan living space was a belter: kitchen, dining bit, and sitting area flowing together, perfect for kicking back. Four bedrooms sorted us out nicely – king with en-suite for me and the missus, a double, and two singles for the kids and mate who tagged along. We cracked open a bottle of wine on the balcony that first evening, watching the sun dip behind Nothe Fort, and I thought, yeah, this is what holidays are meant to be.

What made it though, were the characters we met – proper Weymouth eccentrics, the lot of ’em. First up was Mick, the harbour bloke with a beard like a bird’s nest and a story for every boat. I popped out for milk the next morning, and there he was, mending nets, regaling me with tales of the time a seal nicked his catch. “Oi, lad,” he grinned, “you from up country? Don’t let these tourists fleece ya – stick to the chippy on the quay!” Laughing, I asked about the best spots, and he waved me towards the vibrant shops lining the harbour, insisting the ice cream at the end was “made by pixies, I swear”. Turned out he wasn’t far wrong – creamiest vanilla I’ve had.

Then there was Doris from the pottery shop next door, a wiry septuagenarian with a laugh like a foghorn. She clocked us on the balcony and hollered up about her “famous mugs”, dragging us in for tea. Over steaming cups, she spun yarns about Weymouth’s smuggling heyday, eyes twinkling: “Me grandad hid rum in the Nothe Gardens – still tastes it in the soil!” We ended up buying half her stall, chatting about everything from her pet ferret to the sunset views over the fort. Proper character, Doris – made me reflect on how we city folk rush about, missing these gems.

Wandering the quay became our ritual. Met salty old Reg at the fishing jetty, who claimed his boat once raced a dolphin (“Lost by a whisker, mind!”). He tipped us off for a stroll to Nothe Fort and Gardens – we went that afternoon, kids whooping at the cannons while we nattered about local lore. Even the shopkeeper at the quirky deli, a bloke called Terry with tattoos older than my nan, got in on it, swapping recipes for crab linguine while we planned our home-cooked dinners.

By the end of the week, lounging in that rear courtyard or on the front balcony with a GandT, I felt a proper soft spot for these locals. They turned a smashing holiday home into something unforgettable – quirky mates who made Weymouth feel like home. If you’re after that, get yourself down here. You won’t regret it.