I’ll never forget the drive into County Kerry – we’d piled into the car in Cork after a cracking fry-up, only for the sat-nav to chuck us down some sheep-dotted lane that turned into a single-track mudslide. “Hold on, lads!” I yelled as we fishtailed past a farmer waving his crook like a mad conductor. Twenty minutes later, heart still thumping, we rolled up to this smashing high-end holiday home near the Gap of Dunloe. Perfect for our big family bash, it’s got that stunning split-level living space, nine beds including ground-floor ones and en-suites, plus a pet- and family-friendly enclosed garden with views that stretch over fields and peaks towards Killarney National Park and the lakes. First impressions? Blown away – it felt like our own Kerry kingdom.

No sooner had we unpacked than old Seamus from next door popped over with a welcome pie, his sheepdog Murphy in tow. “Yer man from London, eh? Don’t go gettin’ lost in the Gap – I’ve seen grown fellas cryin’ up there!” he chuckled, eyes twinkling under his flat cap. Seamus was a gem, full of yarns about outrunning tourists on his bike during the Ring of Kerry races. We ended up swapping stories over tea in the garden, him regaling us with how he once herded cows onto the main road just to spite a posh cyclist. Proper character – had us in stitches.

Next day, strolling to Kate Kearney’s Cottage for a pint, we bumped into Bridie, the no-nonsense landlady with a laugh like a foghorn. “Sure, ye’ve the best spot here – closer to the lakes than me own back door!” She twisted my arm into trying her homemade poitín, whispering conspiratorially, “Don’t tell the guards, love, but it’ll put hairs on yer chest.” Over black pudding and soda bread, she spun tales of Black Valley ghosts and the time she outdanced a Yank fiddler at the local céilí. Her warmth melted any travel fatigue; felt like we’d known her forever.

The real magic kicked in at Torc Waterfall, a short hop away. There was Declan, the ice-cream seller with a handlebar moustache, doling out cones while moaning about “eejits who climb the rocks and end up swimmin’ with the otters.” He reckoned his gran’s recipe beat anything in Killarney town, and after a chat about his failed stint as a tour guide (“Too honest for the job!”), we were hooked – not just on the 99s, but his cheeky banter.

Even at Muckross House, amid the gardens, we met chatty Tommy, a gardener who’d “talk the hind leg off a donkey.” He paused his rhododendron pruning to quiz us on London life, then launched into how he’d once hidden from a film crew shooting a period drama. “They wanted me authentic accent – I gave ’em Kerry poetry instead!”

Looking back, it wasn’t the hikes or the views that stuck – though they were lush – it was these quirky locals who turned our stay into pure gold. Made me reflect: in our rush-a-day world, a week chatting with Seamus, Bridie, Declan and Tommy reminded me why holidays recharge the soul. Kerry’s characters? Unbeatable. We’re already plotting a return.