I’ll never forget the drive down to St Ives – we’d set off from Bristol full of beans, belting out old pop tunes, but then the satnav decided to have a hissy fit just past Truro. It rerouted us down some winding lane that felt like it was leading straight into the sea, and there we were, bumper-to-bumper with a tractor driven by a chap who looked like he’d stepped out of a fishing yarn. We finally rolled into town as the sun dipped low, hearts racing a bit, but oh, what a sight – the harbour glittering, the beach beckoning, and our little holiday pad right there, just off the seafront and within throwing distance of the sand.

It’s this contemporary duplex apartment, awash with original artwork and gorgeous furnishings that make you want to kick off your shoes and flop down immediately. Three lovely bedrooms and a fabulous open-plan living, cooking, and dining area – plenty of room for our six-strong crew, so if you’re after a special spot on the Cornish coast where the family can pile in, it doesn’t get much better. First impressions? Pure magic. We cracked open a bottle of fizz on the balcony as the tide rolled in, anticipation bubbling over like the waves below.

But the real joy of St Ives isn’t the views (though they’re cracking), it’s the characters you bump into. Take old Bert at the harbour the next morning – a weathered fisherman with a beard like a bird’s nest, selling his catch straight off the boat. “Fresh as the day’s kiss from the sea, love!” he bellowed, tossing us a couple of mackerel with a wink. We got chatting about his glory days dodging storms off Godrevy Lighthouse, and before we knew it, he’d roped us into a yarn about the time a seal nicked his best crab pot. Laugh? We nearly wet ourselves – proper St Ives eccentricity.

Then there was quirky Maureen at the Porthmeor Beach café, a pint-sized dynamo with rollers in her hair and opinions on everything. She plonked down our pasties (the best, flakiest you’ll find) and launched into a monologue about the artists who flock here. “They come for the light, stay for the gossip!” she cackled, spilling the beans on a local painter who once swapped a canvas for a pint. We spent half an hour there, her rattling on about feuds between the surfers and the Tate crowd, all while the grandkids built sandcastles nearby. Pure gold.

Wandering up to Carbis Bay later, we met taciturn Tom, the ice cream man who’s been peddling 99s from his van since the war (or so he claims). He barely cracked a smile, but when I asked about his secret to the perfect cone, he leaned in conspiratorially: “Patience, lad, and a dash of sea salt.” We swapped stories about family holidays gone wrong – mine involving a lost flip-flop in the dunes – and he chuckled, revealing a softer side under that gruff exterior.

Sitting there on the balcony that last evening, pasty crumbs on my shirt and a pint in hand, I had one of those gentle moments of reflection. Amid the laughter with Bert, Maureen, and Tom, I realised it’s these oddball encounters that stitch a holiday together, far more than any itinerary. St Ives doesn’t just welcome you; its people wrap you up in their tales and send you home grinning. We’ll be back – seals and satnavs permitting.