I’ll never forget the drive down to Somerset last month – sat nav had me convinced I’d make it in under three hours from the Midlands, but no, a cheeky diversion thanks to roadworks near Bridgwater turned it into a four-hour crawl. I was gripping the wheel, humming along to the radio, when we finally spotted the signs for Berrow. That anticipation built as we trundled into this tranquil seaside village, the sea air sneaking through the windows even before we parked up.

Pulling up to the single-storey bungalow, my first impressions were spot on – it looked like the perfect cosy retreat, all low-slung and welcoming, just a short stroll from those vast, dog-friendly sands. Sleeping eight of us plus the two mad labradors, it was spot on for our multi-gen crew: me, the other half, our two teens, and my folks. We dumped the bags and headed straight out, bellies rumbling, to the friendly farm shop just down the path. That’s where I met Reg, the chap behind the counter with a face like a weathered beach pebble and stories for days.

Reg’s the sort who’s lived here all his life, born in a cottage that got washed half away in the ’50s floods. “You here for the beachcombing, then?” he asked, piling my fresh pasties with a grin. I nodded, and he launched into how he once found a Victorian bottle with a ship inside, right after a storm. “Kept the ship, binned the bottle – too much sand in it!” We chuckled, and he waved us off with tips on the best low-tide spots for fossils. Proper character, Reg was; made unpacking feel like we’d stumbled into a sitcom.

Next morning, over bacon butties from the takeaway, we wandered to the Co-op and bumped into Tina, the manager with a laugh that carried across the car park. She’s got this brilliant Brummie-Somerset hybrid accent from marrying local, and while scanning our milk, she regaled us with tales of the village ghost – a fisherman who haunts the dunes on foggy nights. “Saw him meself last winter, bold as brass!” My mum’s eyes went wide, but Tina winked, “Don’t worry, love, he only bothers folk who nick his crab pots.” We spent the day paddling on Berrow Beach, the dogs chasing waves, and I couldn’t help reflecting on how these chats grounded me – city life’s all rush, but here, strangers become mates in minutes.

Afternoon took us along the coastal path straight from the door, bumping into grizzled Derek from the golf course nearby. He was clipping hedges, cap pulled low, and stopped to chat about Brean Down’s wild ponies. “They’ll nick your sandwich quicker than a seagull,” he warned, eyes twinkling. We nattered about the bus route to Burnham-on-Sea for fish and chips – “Best batter in the county!” – and before long, he’d sketched a rough map on a fag packet for spotting seals.

Evenings were pub crawls to the locals’ favourite, where barman Mick held court with his endless supply of daft jokes. “Why don’t Somerseters play hide and seek? Good luck hiding when the tide’s out!” The whole trip revolved around these quirky souls – Reg’s pasties, Tina’s yarns, Derek’s paths, Mick’s pints. They turned a simple holiday into something alive with laughter and local lore. Made me think, doesn’t it, how a bit of chit-chat beats any fancy itinerary. We left buzzing, already plotting a return to Berrow’s brilliant bunch.