I’ll never forget the drive down to North Devon – we’d set off from Bristol full of beans, playlist blaring, but about halfway there, the satnav decided to have a proper sulk and sent us down some winding lane that was more puddle than path. Ended up with the car half-stuck in mud, me and Sarah laughing hysterically while we pushed it free with a couple of passing dog-walkers who reckoned it was “just a bit of Devon welcome”. By the time we arrived, we were buzzing with anticipation, wondering what this tranquil little retreat would be like after all that faff.

Pulling up the private drive, first impressions were spot on – this cosy cottage felt like a proper romantic hideaway, with its enclosed garden running down to a babbling stream, a wood-fired hot tub waiting to be fired up, and two decked areas perfect for chilling or scoffing a barbecue. Tucked just three miles from Barnstaple, yet only six miles from those epic golden beaches at Saunton, Croyde and Woolacombe, it was the ideal spot to base ourselves without feeling remote.

But honestly, the real magic was the quirky locals we bumped into – they made the whole trip. First up was old Reg, the chap who runs the tiny farm shop a mile down the road. We popped in for some local cider and pasties, and he regaled us with tales of his sheepdog, who once herded a flock of tourists off the beach at Croyde. “That dog’s got more sense than half the holidaymakers,” he chuckled, eyes twinkling. Reg’s got this deadpan humour, insisting his cider was “fermented by fairies in Exmoor woods” – we bought three bottles on the spot.

Then there was Jen at the Barnstaple butcher’s, a proper character with a laugh like a foghorn. She spotted our muddy boots and launched into a story about the time her husband got wedged in a cowpat during a South West Coast Path ramble near Saunton. “Mind the tides and the cows, loves – they’re both unpredictable round here!” We left with the best Devon rump steaks for the decking grill, still giggling. Jen even slipped us a recipe scribbled on the back of a receipt, warning it’d “make you forget the M5 traffic”.

Out exploring the wild bits of Exmoor nearby, we met Tom, a grizzled walker with a beard like a Brillo pad, supping tea by a tumbling river. He was full of gentle ribbing about us soft southerners: “Hot tub, eh? Back in my day, we just jumped in the stream – builds character!” We chatted for ages about secret coves along the coast path, him sketching a rough map on a napkin. Proper salt-of-the-earth bloke.

Firing up that hot tub one evening, under the stars with the stream gurgling, Sarah and I reflected on how these chance chats made it all feel so alive. I’m usually a city lad, rushing about, but sitting there, bubbles churning, I realised slowing down for a natter with folks like Reg, Jen and Tom is what holidays are truly about. North Devon’s beaches and moors are stunning, no doubt, but it’s the characters that’ll have us booking back next year. Proper tonic for the soul.