I’ll never forget the drive down to Weymouth – a proper faff from the start. We’d piled into the car in Bristol, kids buzzing in the back with crisps and iPads, when halfway through Dorchester, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly. “Recalculating,” it chirped, as we missed the turning for the A354 and ended up in some muddy farm lane with sheep giving us the evil eye. A quick U-turn and a detour later, we rolled into town just as the sun dipped over the bay, hearts racing but grinning like idiots. Spotting the on-street parking right by the pebble beach was a godsend – generous spaces for once, no faffing with permits.

Climbing up to the second-floor apartment, I was already buzzing with that holiday anticipation, imagining lazy mornings with sea views. Pushing open the door, we were hit with great first impressions: a spacious open-plan kitchen-diner that felt like home straight away, all the gadgets you’d need and cupboards galore to chuck our stuff in. Through to the bright sitting room with its woodburning stove, comfy seating, and those stunning vistas across Weymouth and Portland – pure bliss. It slept us four perfectly, ideal for our little family crew.

But honestly, what made the whole stay were the quirky locals we bumped into – proper characters who turned a simple holiday into a right laugh. First off, there was Madge from the flat below, who we met on the elevated terrace our first evening. She was out there in her slippers, supping tea from a chipped mug, eyeing us like we’d just landed from Mars. “You lot from up country?” she asked, with that Dorset twang thick as clotted cream. Turned out she’d lived there 50 years, seen every gale and sailor come through. Over a natter about the best chippy (her tip: Mick’s on the Esplanade, none of that tourist guff), she regaled us with tales of the time a seal pinched a fisherman’s lunch right off the harbour wall. We ended up sharing her homemade flapjacks – still the best I’ve had.

Next day, strolling the beachfront, we got chatting to Derek, the ice cream man with a van parked opposite Nothe Fort. Bloke was a legend: handlebar t ’s moustache, stories about smuggling in the old days (or so he claimed), and a conspiracy theory about Portland Bill lighthouse being haunted by a pirate ghost. “Don’t go at dusk, love,” he winked at my wife, handing over 99s with extra flakes. The kids were hooked, begging for more chats than ice creams.

Then there was old Reg at the Cove House Inn, just a pebble’s throw away. Popped in for a pint after a splash in the sea, and he was holding court at the bar, regaling punters with his “secret” spots for crab fishing off Greenhill. “Tie a bit of bacon on a string, job’s a good’un!” he boomed, slapping the counter. We swapped yarns about our sat-nav disaster, and he roared with laughter, buying a round. Proper friendly, no pretence.

Wandering up to Radipole Lake one afternoon, we met Wendy, the volunteer at the nature reserve centre. She was feeding the swans, chatting away about kingfishers darting by the hides. “Seen ’em? Flash of blue, gone in a tick!” Her passion was infectious; even the kids put down their phones to spot herons.

Reflecting on it now, sat back on that terrace with a cuppa, watching the sun set over the bay, I realised it’s these daft conversations that stick. Not the fancy views or the stove (though they were cracking), but the Weymouth folk – salty, storytelling souls who made us feel like locals in a heartbeat. Can’t wait to go back and catch up with the gang.