I’ll never forget the drive down to North Devon – rain lashing the windscreen like it had a personal grudge, and then, just past Barnstaple, the satnav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us down a narrow lane that was more puddle than path. We ended up with the car half-stuck in mud, me and the wife laughing hysterically while I rang the breakdown lot. Twenty minutes later, we were back on track, hearts racing a bit, but buzzing with that proper holiday anticipation. You know, the kind where you imagine cream teas and coastal walks ahead.

Pulling up to this brand-new cottage near Bideford, though, it was love at first sight. Modern as anything, beautifully finished inside with that thoughtful touch everywhere – comfy sofas that swallowed you whole, a kitchen kitted out like a telly chef’s dream, and little details that made you go “ooh”. Guests rave about it online for good reason; it’s the sort of place that promises proper relaxation from the off. We dumped the bags and cracked open a bottle of local scrumpy, toasting our muddy arrival.

But the real magic? The characters we met. First up was old Reg from the village shop down the road, a proper North Devon treasure with a face like a wrinkled map and stories for days. I popped in for milk and came out with a full history of the apple harvests, plus his theory on why the tides round here are “sneakier than a fox in a henhouse”. He winked and slipped us a free pasty, saying, “You city folk need fattening up!” Couldn’t argue with that – it was the flakiest thing I’ve scoffed in ages.

Then there was Tina at the harbour café, all peroxide hair and infectious cackle. We wandered down to Bideford Quay that first afternoon, sea air whipping about, and she clocked us as newcomers straight away. “You staying in that posh new spot up the hill?” she asked, plonking down mugs of builder’s tea without asking. Turned out she’d known the builders – “Lovely lads, but daft as brushes” – and regaled us with tales of the local lifeboat crew’s latest escapade rescuing a wayward fisherman who’d “rowed out for a pint and forgot the way back”. We were in stitches, her mimicking the skipper’s Devon drawl to perfection. By the end, she’d roped us into promising to join the quiz night at the pub.

Next day, strolling along the pebble beach towards Appledore – just a hop away – we bumped into grizzled fisherman Mick, mending his nets by the boats. Proper salty sea dog, he was, with tattoos older than me and a yarn about the time a seal nicked his catch. “Cheeky bugger waved at me!” he chuckled, eyes twinkling. We chatted for an hour about crab pots and clotted cream recipes, him insisting we try his wife’s scones from the bakery round the corner.

Reflecting on it now, sat back home with a cuppa, I realise it’s these quirky locals that turned a cracking holiday into something unforgettable. Not the fancy digs (though they were spot-on), but Reg’s pasties, Tina’s gossip, Mick’s seal saga – proper characters who made North Devon feel like family. If you’re after a break that’s more chat than checklist, get yourself down there. You won’t regret it.