I’ll never forget the drive to our North Devon holiday spot – a proper faff from the start. We’d piled into the car in Barnstaple, me navigating with my ancient sat-nav that decided to throw a wobbly halfway through, directing us down a muddy farm track that wasn’t even on the map. “Recalculating,” it chirped cheerily as we bounced about like peas in a pod. By the time we emerged, caked in Devon dirt, we were laughing so hard my sides ached. But oh, the anticipation built as we wound closer – visions of cosy evenings and proper countryside peace dancing in my head.

Pulling up to this glorious barn conversion, originally a Gin Gang – a former Horse Engine House to drive the main threshing barn – we were gobsmacked. Transformed into a luxury space to relax with family and friends, its open-plan design offered everything you need to make fantastic memories. Set in the beautiful North Devon countryside, right on the edge of Exmoor National Park, and close to local gems like Exmoor Zoo just four miles away, it felt like we’d stumbled into a hug from the landscape itself. First impressions? Spot on – we dumped the bags and cracked open a bottle of local scrumpy straight away.

What made the week, though, weren’t the views (stunning as they were), but the quirky locals we bumped into. First up was Madge at the farm shop down the lane, a wiry septuagenarian with a cackle like a startled crow. “You city folk come for the quiet, then moan about the cows!” she teased as I fumbled for change over her homemade pasties. Turned out she’d lived there 50 years, regaling us with tales of the time a fox nicked her prize hen mid-church service. We nattered for ages about her rogue goat that once headbutted the postie’s van – proper character, that one.

Then there was Terry from the pub in the next village, a retired fisherman with tattoos older than my dad and stories saltier than his chips. Over a pint of Exmoor Ale, he leaned in conspiratorially: “Heard you’re in the old Gin Gang? My grandad worked that beast – horses goin’ round like lunatics to thresh the wheat. Mind the ghosts don’t get ya!” We chuckled, but his eyes twinkled with mischief. He reckoned the best beach walk was to the hidden cove nearby, past the wild ponies – “Don’t feed ’em, or they’ll follow you home!”

Even at Exmoor Zoo, four miles up the road, we met keeper Dave, who looked like he’d been sculpted from the moors themselves – all beard and boots. “Lemme tell ya about Sid the tapir,” he grinned, shoving a carrot our way. “Thinks he’s a dog. Chases squirrels daily.” Sid duly obliged, splashing through his enclosure like a furry submarine, while Dave spun yarns about escaped lemurs from back in the day. Pure gold.

Chatting with these folks was the holiday’s heartbeat – proper North Devon warmth that melted away the daily grind. Made me reflect a bit, sat there one evening with the barn’s lights glowing: we rush about so much, but it’s these random encounters, these eccentrics with their daft tales, that stick. Left us buzzing, promising to return for more. If you’re after a break that’s more than just scenery, this is it.