I’ll never forget the drive down to St Ives – or rather, the near-disaster that kicked it off. We’d piled into the car in the drizzle of Devon, me navigating with a dodgy signal on my phone, when suddenly the sat-nav decided to send us down a single-track lane that looked more like a sheep’s personal runway. Branches scraped the roof, and I’m yelling at Dave to reverse while he’s muttering about Cornish roads being out to get us. Twenty minutes of mild panic later, we emerged laughing onto the main road, hearts racing but spirits high. By the time Carbis Bay came into view, with its golden sands stretching out under that endless Cornish sky, all was forgiven. I could already picture us there, wine in hand.

Pulling up to the first-floor apartment, my first impressions were spot on – it’s this gorgeous seaside spot right across from the beach, with an open-plan living and dining area that just screams relaxation. Those views from the windows and private balcony are proper breathtaking, blue horizons in every direction. Perfect for our little family of four, with two comfy bedrooms and space to sprawl. We dumped the bags and cracked open a bottle before we’d even unpacked.

What made the trip, though, weren’t the views – stunning as they were – but the quirky locals we bumped into. First up was Madge behind the counter at the beachside café near Porthminster. She’s this tiny dynamo with a perm like a halo and stories for days. “You from up country, love?” she asked, sliding over our cream teas. Turned out she’d lived in Carbis Bay since the war, regaling us with tales of smuggling fishermen who’d hide contraband in the dunes. “Mind the seagulls,” she winked, “they’re naughtier than the old smugglers.” We ended up chatting for an hour, scones forgotten, as she dissected every gossip from St Ives market – who’d won the best pasty prize and why the artist colony lot were “proper divvies” this year.

Then there was Eddie, the fisherman we met on the sands at low tide. Proper weathered face, pipe in his mouth, casting lines like he was born with a rod in hand. Dave got talking to him about the catch, and before you know it, Eddie’s pulling out pilchards from his bucket, insisting we try one fresh. “None of that supermarket rubbish,” he growled good-naturedly. He spun yarns about storms that “swallowed boats whole” and the time a seal nicked his best catch right off the hook. His laugh was infectious, all gravel and sea salt, and he even sketched us a quick map to the hidden cove at low tide – “Don’t tell the tourists!”

Even at the local shop up the hill, run by twins Bert and Ernie (no, really – their parents had a sense of humour), the banter flowed. “Fancy a pasty or three?” Bert grinned, while Ernie weighed our spuds. They teased us about our “posh” accents and shared whispers about the Tate St Ives crowd – “Artists, eh? Paint the sea one day, forget their socks the next.”

Strolling back to the balcony each evening, wine glass in hand, gazing at that Cornish vista, I had a quiet moment of reflection. Amid the characters and chatter, I realised how these encounters – raw, unfiltered, full of life – are what recharge you. Not the fancy spots or perfect plans, but the people who make a place pulse. Dave caught me smiling to myself. “Penny for ’em?” “Just grateful,” I said. Best holiday mishap and all.