I’ll never forget the drive down to Brean in Somerset – rain lashing the windscreen like it had a personal grudge, and then, just past Weston-super-Mare, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us looping round a muddy farm track. We ended up with a car caked in Somerset sludge, laughing our heads off as we finally spotted the village sign. But honestly, pulling into Brean that afternoon, with the sea mist rolling in and the beach just a stone’s throw away, all that stress melted. I could already taste the salt air and feel the holiday buzz kicking in.

We’d booked this cracking pet-friendly flat right in the heart of the village – a cosy, modern spot perfect for our little crew of mates and the dog. Stepping inside, we were greeted by this brilliant open-plan living space, all warm and welcoming, like it was made for kicking back. Plonked ourselves on the squishy sofas, bags dumped, and the kitchen had every gadget going for lazy self-catering feasts. First impressions? Spot on. It felt like our own little home from home, doorstep to that gorgeous stretch of beach.

What made the trip, though, were the characters we met – Brean’s got them in spades. First up was Mick, the chip shop bloke down by the seafront. We wandered over for cod and chips that first evening, wind whipping off the waves, and he’s regaling us with tales of the time a seal nicked a punter’s entire portion. “Cheeky blighter,” he chuckled, his Somerset burr thick as clotted cream. “Comes right up on the beach, bold as brass. You lot watch your sausage rolls!” We were in stitches, stuffing our faces with his crispy batter – proper holiday fuel.

Next day, strolling the beach with the dog, we bumped into Doris, this sprightly nan in wellies, poking at rock pools with a stick. She clocked our London plates and launched into how Brean’s changed since the war. “Used to be all donkey rides and kiss-me-quicks,” she said, eyes twinkling. “Now it’s fancy flats and folk like you escaping the smoke. Good on ya!” We chatted for ages about her glory days dancing at the local hall, and she even shared her secret whelk recipe. Proper local wisdom, that.

Then there was Terry at the village pub, the Brean Down Arms – a real gem just a short yomp away. He’s the landlord, built like a rugby prop, with stories about the annual sandcastle comp that’d make you cry laughing. “Last year, old Geoff built a moat so deep it flooded the judge’s flip-flops,” he roared, pulling us pints of bitter. We spent the evening swapping yarns – him on ghost ships off the coast, us on city chaos. “You city folk,” he grinned, “always rushing. Here, time’s for savouring, like a good pasty.”

Chatting with these lot made me stop and think – amid the laughs, I realised how rare it is to just connect like that. No agendas, no screens, just proper natter over chips or a pint. Brean’s beach might be the draw, but it’s the quirky souls like Mick, Doris and Terry that turn a holiday into memories. We left buzzing, already plotting a return. Somerset, you’ve got my heart.