I’ll never forget the drive down to Castletownshend – we’d rented a car at Cork Airport, buzzing with that holiday excitement, only for the sat-nav to chuck us down a narrow lane that turned into a muddy track. “This can’t be right,” I muttered, as we bumped along, sheep scattering like they’d seen a ghost. Turned out it was a shortcut locals use, and we arrived laughing, covered in a bit of splatter, but with the sun dipping low over the hills, casting this golden glow that made everything feel magical right from the off.

The holiday home was just what we needed – a cosy spot on the village edge, perfect for our group of six, with an open-plan kitchen-diner that begged for shared meals, a snug sitting room with a woodburning stove, and a big rear garden overlooking countryside and a glimpse of sea. We dumped the bags, cracked open some tins, and stepped out to breathe it all in. Anticipation? Oh yes, but the first impressions hit harder – pure Irish charm, quiet lanes, and that fresh sea air whispering promises of lazy days.

What made it, though, were the characters. First up was old Tommy at the pier, no more than a ten-minute stroll away. We wandered down for a nose around the harbour, boats bobbing gently, and there he was, mending nets with hands like weathered oak. “Yer man from the city, are ya?” he grinned, eyes twinkling. We got chatting about the lobster pots – he swore by the full moon for the best catches – and before we knew it, he’d spun yarns about mermaids luring fishermen in these very waters. “Don’t be swimmin’ after dark, now,” he winked, half-serious. We bought a bag of his fresh crab claws on the spot; best seafood we’ve ever cracked open in that garden, with a barbecue going as the sun set.

Then there was Siobhan behind the counter at the village shop-cum-post-office. She’s the heartbeat of the place, dishing out bread, milk, and gossip in equal measure. “Heard ye had the mud bath comin’ in,” she chuckled when we popped in for supplies. We laughed about our sat-nav fiasco, and she regaled us with tales of tourists who’d once driven straight into the harbour – “Straight as an arrow, they went!” Her laugh was infectious, and she slipped us a map scribbled with her top spots: the secret beach cove for pebble-hunting, and the wooded path to the castle ruins where, she swore, you could still hear echoes of old poets reciting.

Evenings, we’d gather round the stove, reliving these chats over stew or whatever we rustled up. One night, fuelled by local stout from the pub up the road – where the barman, Mick, debated everything from hurling matches to whether cows dream in black and white – I had a quiet moment. Staring out at the dark fields, I thought, isn’t this the point? Not the fancy bits, but these quirky souls who make a place stick. We left with full bellies, fuller hearts, and promises to return. Castletownshend’s got under our skin, alright.