I’ll never forget the drive down to Weymouth – sat nav had us veering off into some back lane near Dorchester, convinced we were starring in our own episode of SatNav Fails. We ended up in a muddy farm track, laughing our socks off as I reversed into a hedge. But once we shook off the leaves and hit the coast road, the anticipation built like a kid eyeing the ice cream van. Weymouth’s sea air hit us through the open windows, and by the time we pulled up to the harbourside development, I was buzzing.

Stepping out, the second-floor apartment blew us away straight off. It’s this sleek, light-filled spot with massive patio doors in the living/dining room that fling open to a balcony overlooking the buzzing marina. Boats bobbing, gulls squawking – proper postcard stuff. We dumped the bags, cracked open a couple of tins, and just soaked it in. Perfect for us lot: me, my other half, and a mate who fancies himself a bit of a rambler.

But honestly, the real magic was the characters we bumped into – Weymouth’s got them in spades. First morning, we wandered down to the harbour for a fry-up at this no-nonsense café, and there’s Madge behind the counter, a wiry septuagenarian with a perm like a helmet and stories for days. “You lot from up country?” she barked, slathering butter on my toast. Turned out she’d been slinging bacon butties since before the Olympics sailing lot descended. Over our plates, she regaled us with tales of the time a seal pinched a punter’s pasty right off the bench. “Cheeky blighter waved at me after!” We were in stitches, vowing to return daily just for her patter.

Later, strolling the beach towards Nothe Fort – it’s only a hop away – we got chatting to Derek, a retired fisherman with hands like weathered oak and a beard that could hide a crab pot. He was casting lines off the pebbles, muttering about “these new-fangled lures from the posh shops”. I asked about the best spots, and he launched into a monologue on mackerel runs and the Great Storm of ’87 that nearly swept his boat to Portland. “Don’t get me started on them jet-ski wallahs,” he grumbled, eyes twinkling. “Ruinin’ me peace!” We ended up sharing his flask of tea, swapping daft fishing yarns till the sun dipped.

Evening found us on the balcony with fish and chips from the quay – proper greasy newspaper-wrapped ones – when old Reg from downstairs popped up. He’s the harbourside sage, walks with a stick but knows every inch of the marina like his own garden. “Views better than telly, eh?” he winked, settling in for a natter about the regatta crowds and that one year a yacht got stuck under the bridge. His wife chipped in from the kitchen window below, yelling about his wandering habits. Pure gold.

Reflecting on it now, sat back home with the grey skies, I realise it wasn’t just the views or the walks along the esplanade – it was these quirky souls who made the week. Madge’s banter, Derek’s gruff wisdom, Reg’s endless tales – they turned a cracking apartment stay into something properly memorable. Weymouth’s harbour heartbeat, innit? Can’t wait to go back and hassle them again.