I’ll never forget the drive down to North Devon – sat nav had me convinced I’d end up in the Bristol Channel, and sure enough, I took a wrong turn near Barnstaple, splashing through a puddle that drenched the windscreen like a comedy car wash. Laughing it off, we finally rolled up to this tucked-away holiday home on a quiet road just outside Northam, and blimey, the first impressions were spot on. There it was, this large, luxurious place with a spacious garden begging for barbecues and a bubbling hot tub, off-road parking for three cars (handy with our lot), and even a games room. Stepping inside, the stylish interior hit us – that plush blue velvet corner sofa in the sitting room, paired with an 85-inch Smart TV, screamed perfect movie nights. The fully-equipped kitchen and big dining table for everyone sealed the deal; we were buzzing with anticipation for the week ahead.

But honestly, what made it unforgettable weren’t the fancy bits – it was the quirky locals we bumped into, the sort of characters who make Devon feel like a proper storybook. First up was Madge, the neighbour who popped over with a tray of her legendary scones on day one. “You from up country, then?” she asked, eyeing our London plates with a wink. Turned out she’d lived in the village her whole life, regaling us with tales of smuggling ghosts from the old Northam Burrows days. We chuckled over cream teas in the garden, her insisting proper clotted cream goes on first – “Jam’s for amateurs!” I tried arguing the Cornish way, but she just patted my hand like I was a daft kid. Proper heartwarming, that.

Then there was Pete from the Appledore beach café, a grizzled fisherman type with a beard like a bird’s nest and stories taller than the lighthouse. We wandered down to the coast – it’s just a hop away – and he clocked us straight off as holidaymakers. “Hot tub treating you right?” he grinned, somehow knowing. Over fish and chips wrapped in yesterday’s news, he spun yarns about dodging seals while hauling crab pots, and how the tides here whisper secrets if you listen. One evening, we got him chatting in the games room over a pint (we’d stocked up local), and he swore blind he’d seen a mermaid off the estuary. We were in stitches, me half-believing him after a few ales.

Even the postman, Terry, chipped in – delivering a forgotten parcel and lingering for a natter about his glory days coxing the local lifeboat. “Saved more souls than a vicar,” he boasted, before sharing tips on the best pasty spot in Bideford, just down the road. These encounters turned our stay into a proper social whirl, firing up barbecues with their recipes and piling into the hot tub swapping laughs.

Reflecting on it now, sat back home, I realise I’d been rushing life in the city, missing these gems – real folk with time to yarn and make you feel like family. North Devon didn’t just recharge us; it reminded me to slow down and chat more. Can’t wait to go back and catch up with the crew.