I’ll never forget the drive down to North Devon – sat nav had me convinced we were nearly there, then bam, a rogue sheep decided to play chicken on the narrow lanes near Braunton. Heart in mouth, I slammed the brakes, and the poor thing just blinked at us before trotting off. Classic Devon welcome, eh? Still, by the time we wound into the pretty seaside village of Mortehoe, the sun was peeking through the clouds, and I was buzzing with that proper holiday anticipation – you know, the kind where you imagine cracking open a cold one while watching the waves.

Pulling up to the apartment, my first impressions were spot on: a cosy, welcoming spot tucked away but with that perfect coastal vibe, ideal for basing ourselves while we explored. It felt like home from the off, with everything you need right there. But honestly, it was the locals who turned this trip into pure gold. Mortehoe’s got this quirky charm, full of characters who’d chat your ear off and make you feel like you’ve known them for years.

First up was Dave at the village shop, a wiry bloke in his sixties with a beard like a bird’s nest and stories for days. I popped in for milk and ended up hearing how he once surfed Woolacombe beach in a storm back in ’89 – “Waves taller than houses, mate! Nearly ended up in Bristol.” We laughed about it over his terrible coffee, and he insisted on throwing in a pasty “for the road.” Woolacombe’s golden sands are just a mile and a half down the hill, proper surfer central, and Dave reckoned the paddleboarders you see bobbing about are mostly “city types pretending they’re pros.” Cheeky, but spot on.

Then there was Sheila behind the bar at the local pub – think classic landlady with a sharp wit and a laugh that echoes. She clocked us as newcomers straight away and regaled us with tales of the South West Coast Path walks right on our doorstep. “You lot up for a ramble? Mind the cows – they’ve got attitude.” We took her advice and did a stretch the next day, puffing along the cliffs with the sea crashing below. Pure magic. Sheila even slipped us a map scribbled with her secret spots for cream teas.

Over in Ilfracombe, just five miles up the coast, we bumped into Madge on the harbour wall. Victorian fishing town buzz, boats chugging out for trips – we hopped on one ourselves, spotting seals like something out of a David Attenborough doc. Madge, with her woolly hat and binoculars, was feeding the gulls (against the signs, mind) and told us she’d lived there since the war. “Fished with my dad, now I just boss the tourists about.” Her gentle ribbing about our “soft southern accents” had us in stitches, and she waved us off with tips for the best chippy.

Even the cyclists we met on the Tarka Trail – safe paths weaving through the countryside – were characters. One geezer, Pete, stopped for a natter, his face like a beetroot. “Figure-of-eight route, see? Keeps life interesting.” He swore by the pubs en route for a pint mid-ride.

Reflecting on it now, sat back home with a cuppa, I realise it’s these oddball encounters that stick. Not just the stunning coast or the comfy apartment, but Dave’s yarns, Sheila’s banter, Madge’s mischief. North Devon’s got a way of drawing you in through its people – proper tonic for the soul. Can’t wait to go back and catch up with the crew.