I’ll never forget the drive down to Padstow – or rather, the near-disaster just outside it. We’d piled into the car in Bristol, kids buzzing with excitement about pasties and beaches, me dreaming of a proper sit-down with a cuppa. But halfway through Cornwall’s twisty lanes, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and directed us straight into a hedge. Turns out it was a farmer’s shortcut that wasn’t. We emerged scratched but laughing, with twigs in the hair and a story to tell. By the time we rounded the corner to our holiday home – a tidy two-floor cottage tucked away near Treyarnon Bay – the sun was dipping low, painting the sea gold. First impressions? Spot on. That open-plan living space with its squashy leather sofas screamed “kick off your shoes and flop,” and the kitchen looked primed for bacon butties or whatever we fancied.

But honestly, it wasn’t the views or the telly that made the week – it was the locals. Proper characters, every one. First up was Madge behind the counter at the village shop, round the corner from the cottage. She’s got this wild perm that defies gravity and a laugh like a foghorn. “You from upcountry?” she asked, eyeing our accents as I grabbed milk and eggs. I nodded, and she launched into how the bay’s sands shift every storm, swallowing flip-flops whole. “Lost me best pair last winter,” she cackled. “Went out with the tide, came back as someone else’s treasure.” We ended up chatting for half an hour about her ghost crab theory – reckoned they’re nicking socks at night. I half-believed her.

Then there was Trevor, the fisherman we met on the beach path to Constantine Bay. Proper salty sea dog, with a beard like a bird’s nest and tales taller than the lighthouse. He was mending nets, puffing on a pipe, when my lad asked about seals. “Seals? Oh aye, they’re the spies,” he winked. “Government’s got ‘em trained to watch for smugglers. Saw one last week with a tiny camera!” We walked with him to the surf, him regaling us with yarns about the time a dolphin stole his lunch. The kids were hooked; even I forgot about the dodgy signal on my phone.

No trip’s complete without the pub quiz at the local in St Merryn – we wandered over one evening, bellies full from the cottage dining table. Enter Doris, the landlady with tattoos from her Navy days and a memory for faces like an elephant. “Newbies! Table by the fire,” she bellowed, plonking down pints. During the quiz, she whispered cheats about the harbourmaster’s fishing record, all while grilling us on our lives. “City folk always burn the pasties,” she teased. We came second, thanks to her, and swapped numbers for her scone recipe.

Reflecting on it now, sat back home with the washing piling up, I realise those chats were the real holiday magic. Not the waves or the walks to Harlyn Bay – though they were cracking – but connecting with folk who make Cornwall tick. Made me think: we rush about too much up north. Down there, time slows, and strangers become mates over a yarn. Can’t wait to go back and see if Madge’s crabs have unionised.