I’ll never forget the drive down to St Ives – sat nav directing us straight into a Cornish roadworks nightmare. We’d left Exeter full of beans, sandwiches packed and the dog in the boot, only for a cheeky diversion to turn our two-hour jaunt into three. By the time we crawled past Hayle, I was humming sea shanties to keep sane, but then – splash! – we hit a massive puddle that drenched the windscreen. Proper comedy moment, wiping it down with a tea towel while swearing at the heavens.

Finally rolling up to our two-bedroom penthouse at Belyars Croft Apartments, overlooking St Ives Bay, we were buzzing with that arrival anticipation. The place was a belter: luxurious, with panoramic sea views from the living area and balcony, just a short stroll from the harbour, town centre, beaches and the scenic railway. First impressions? Spot on. Sun dipping into the bay, waves crashing – we cracked open a bottle of fizz on the balcony before we’d even unpacked.

But the real magic of the trip? The characters we met. St Ives is crawling with them, proper quirky locals who make you feel like you’ve stumbled into a sitcom. First up was Madge, the harbour fishmonger with a laugh like a foghorn. I wandered down for some fresh mackerel on day two, and she clocked my northern accent straight away. “Up from God’s own country, eh? Well, you’ll do for Cornwall – but mind the seagulls, they’re sneakier than my ex!” She regaled me with tales of the time a gull nicked her best catch mid-sale, flapping off triumphant. We chatted for ages about her glory days entering the World Pilot Gig Championships, rowing like a demon across the bay. “Rowed through storms that’d sink a battleship,” she winked, wrapping my fish with a flourish. Proper character, Madge.

Then there was Eddie, the chap running the pasty stall near Porthmeor Beach. Bearded as a pirate, with a dog called Salty who begged for scraps. I grabbed lunch after a dip in the surf – water was bracing, but glorious – and Eddie leaned in conspiratorially. “Secret to the perfect pasty? My nan’s recipe, but with a twist of smuggled rum.” Turned out he’d been a fisherman, now semi-retired, spending days spotting seals from his deckchair. “Saw one last week with a fish bigger than your arm!” he chuckled, eyes twinkling. We got chatting about the railway too – he’d waved at every train since he was knee-high. “Keeps the tourists coming, bless ‘em.”

Evenings brought more gems. At the Sloop Inn, we bumped into retired artist Bertie, nursing a pint with paint still flecked on his glasses. “St Ives light’s magic, innit? Turner knew it.” He sketched our dog on a napkin, spinning yarns about smuggling brandy in the old days. “Hide it under the pilchards – customs never twigged!” His stories had us in stitches, that gentle pub buzz making everything golden.

Reflecting on it now, sat back home with a cuppa, I realise it’s those chats that stick. Not just the views or the walks along the coastal path to Carbis Bay – though they were lush – but the locals pulling you into their world. Makes you ponder how a quick hello can turn a holiday into something heartfelt. Can’t wait to go back and catch up with Madge’s latest gull saga.