I’ll never forget the drive down to Weymouth – sat nav insisting we take some daft shortcut through the New Forest, only for us to end up behind a flock of sheep that decided the A31 was their personal parade ground. An hour late, honking futilely at a collie who looked more in charge than the farmer, we finally rolled into town just as the sun dipped over the sea. But oh, what a payoff. Pulling up to this cosy little apartment right in the thick of it all, heart of Weymouth, I caught my first glimpse through the window: waves crashing in, endless blue stretching out. Romantic as anything, open-plan setup with a sofa begging you to flop down and a kitchen that screamed “cook something simple and stare at the view”. First impressions? Bloody brilliant – I mean, proper brilliant.

No sooner had we dumped our bags than we wandered out for a pint at the Royal Oak, that old boozer just a stone’s throw away on the harbour. There was Madge behind the bar, a proper Weymouth character with a perm like a halo and stories for days. “You lot from up country?” she asked, pulling our pints with forearms like a docker’s. Turned out she’d lived here 50 years, seen every summer invasion from Notting Hill trendies to proper navvies. “Sea views, eh? Best therapy there is,” she winked, nodding at our place. “But mind the seagulls – they’re worse than my ex, pinching chips right off your plate.” We laughed till our sides hurt, her tales of the 1976 heatwave floods turning into a full-blown yarn about smuggling rum in the old days. Proper local legend.

Next morning, breakfast at the kitchen table with that view – waves rolling in like clockwork – we headed to the beach. That’s where we met Terry, the sandcastle king. Must’ve been 70 if he was a day, building these mad forts with his grandkids, moats deeper than the English Channel. “Fancy a go?” he bellowed, handing me a bucket. Turned out he’s a retired fisherman, knows every wreck from Portland Bill to here. Chatting away as the kids buried my legs, he reckoned Weymouth’s magic is in the people. “Tourists come and go, but us lot? We’re the tide that sticks.” Made me think – rushing about in London, when did I last build a sandcastle? Bit of a wake-up, that.

Afternoon took us to Nothe Fort, poking about the tunnels. Bumped into Reg, the volunteer guide with a voice like a foghorn and eyebrows you could shelter under. “Heard you’re in that sea-view spot,” he grinned – word travels fast here. He regaled us with WWII ghost stories, claiming his uncle saw U-boats from the ramparts. “Don’t laugh, but I’ve felt ’em meself on quiet nights.” Chills, proper chills, but his cheeky grin had us in stitches.

Evening stroll along the esplanade, chips in hand (seagull-dodged, thanks Madge), we chatted with young Ellie, the ice cream seller with neon hair and a Dorset twang thick as clotted cream. “Stay clear of the funfair on a Saturday,” she warned, “unless you like queuing with hen dos.” Her take on Weymouth life – “sun, sand, and the odd punch-up over parking” – had us howling.

Those quirky souls made the stay. Not just the view or the waves, but Madge’s pints, Terry’s castles, Reg’s ghosts, Ellie’s tips. Made me reflect: holidays aren’t about ticking boxes, they’re about the characters who make a place hum. Can’t wait to go back.