I’ll never forget the drive down to North Devon – sat nav insisting we take some winding back lane near Braunton, only for us to end up behind a sheep farmer’s tractor doing about 5mph with a flock in tow. Proper comedy gold, that was; the kids in the back were chanting “baa-baa-black sheep” like it was a rock concert, and I’m there honking gently, wondering if we’d make check-in before dark. But honestly, it set the tone for a cracking holiday, full of those unexpected Devon characters that make you chuckle for days.

Finally rolling up to this stunner overlooking Combesgate Beach, I was buzzing with anticipation – you know that flutter when you’ve been dreaming of coastal escapes all winter? First impressions? Blown away. It’s this sleek contemporary holiday home, all sharp lines and luxury vibes, with a hot tub steaming away like a promise of bliss, a cinema room for rainy afternoons, and that massive glass-fronted deck staring right out to sea. Slept twelve of us easy in five cracking bedrooms – perfect for our big family do. We dumped the bags and cracked open the prosecco, toasting the view as the sun dipped over the waves.

But the real magic? The locals. Mortehoe’s a tiny spot, but blimey, what a cast of characters. First morning, we wandered down to the beach and bumped into Madge, the octogenarian dog-walker with a Jack Russell called Buster who reckons he’s part pirate. “You lot from upcountry?” she eyed us suspiciously, then launched into how Buster once chased a seal right into the surf. “Nearly had me heart, he did!” We ended up chatting for an hour about her glory days smuggling contraband pasties from Woolacombe bakery – pure fiction, I reckon, but told with such gusto you couldn’t help but buy it.

Then there was Pete at the beach café, a grizzled surfer type with a beard like a Brillo pad and stories of the ’70s big-wave scene at Woolacombe. “Lad, you ever tried a Devon shred?” he asked my nephew, handing over a cream tea that was more clotted than a soap opera. Turned out Pete’s nephew runs the surf school just down the beach – next day, we’re all out there on wonky boards, me flailing like a beached whale while Pete bellows tips from the shore. “Keep yer knees bent, or the sea’ll have ya!” Laugh? We howled when I wiped out spectacularly, emerging seaweed-crowned to applause from his mates.

Even the hot tub sessions drew ’em in. Old Reg, the fisherman from the village, popped by one evening with a basket of fresh mackerel he’d caught that morning. “Caught these off the rocks at Combe Martin – don’t tell the missus, she thinks I’m retired!” We fired up the barbie on the deck, swapped tales of storms that “rattled the devil’s teeth,” and watched the sunset paint the sea pink. Reg’s got this theory that Combesgate Beach is haunted by a smuggler’s ghost – “Only comes out on full moons, mind.”

Reflecting on it now, sat back home with a cuppa, I realise it wasn’t just the luxe setup or the views that made it – it was these quirky souls, turning a holiday into proper memories. North Devon’s got that knack for throwing curveballs in the shape of larger-than-life locals. Can’t wait to go back and see what mischief Madge and Buster are up to next.