I’ll never forget the drive down to North Devon – sat nav insisted on taking us through those narrow lanes near Bideford, and wouldn’t you know it, we had a proper comedy moment when the caravan (hired for the grandkids’ bikes) clipped a hedge, sending leaves flying everywhere. The wife’s face was a picture, but we laughed it off, arriving at this tucked-away holiday home on the edge of Appledore just as the sun dipped over the river. From the moment we pulled up, it felt like we’d stumbled into a postcard: quiet spot with cracking river views, luxurious inside and pet-friendly for our daft Labrador, perfect for our group of ten – family and mates spilling out everywhere.

First impressions? Spot on. A quick 300-metre wander and we were in the heart of the village, quayside buzzing with that proper seafaring vibe. But honestly, it was the locals who made the whole trip – quirky bunch, full of stories that had us in stitches. Take old Reg at the first pub we hit, The Beaver, arms like Popeye’s from years hauling lobster pots. “You lot from upcountry?” he grinned, plonking down pints of proper Devon ale. Turned out he’d fished these waters since the war, regaling us with tales of dodging seals that nick your catch mid-line. “Cheeky blighters, bolder than the tourists!” We spent the evening swapping yarns, him mimicking a seal’s bark so convincingly the kids were howling.

Next morning, strolling the South West Coast Path – it clips right through the village – we bumped into Wendy, the artist with paint-splattered wellies, outside her gallery. She’s the one who paints those wild seascapes you see in the windows, all crashing waves and moody skies. “Fancy a go?” she asked, thrusting a brush at my niece. Before I knew it, we were all daubing canvases, Wendy chuckling at my hopeless attempt at a horizon. “You’ve got more enthusiasm than talent, love!” she teased gently. Proper character, she was – moved here from London years back, says the light’s magic for her work. We bought a little print, still grinning about my abstract blob.

Over coffee at one of the cute cafes – frothy cappuccinos and flapjacks to die for – we got chatting to Mike, the fisherman-turned-postman who delivers round these parts. He’s got this mad story about the time a pod of dolphins followed his boat right into the quay, leaping like it was a show just for him. “North Devon’s got soul, you know? Not like them fancy spots down Cornwall.” We nodded along, plotting a trip to Westward Ho! beach, just three miles off, where he swore the chips at the beach cafe are the best this side of Bideford.

Even a jaunt into Bideford for a mooch – market town’s got cracking shops and eateries – threw up gems like chatty Pat at the butchers, who slipped us free pasties after hearing we’d walked the Tarka Trail bit nearby. “Fuel for the legs!” she winked. These encounters had me reflecting one quiet evening by the river: rushing about life back home, we forget how a natter with proper folk recharges the batteries. No grand adventures needed; just good company in this gem of a spot. Appledore’s characters? They’re the real holiday magic. We’re already plotting a return.