I’ll never forget the drive down to Wexford – we’d set off from Dublin full of beans, sandwiches packed and the sat-nav promising a smooth two hours. But no, halfway there, I took a wrong turn onto some narrow boreen that had more potholes than a dodgy golf course. The car juddered like it was auditioning for a rally, and my other half started muttering about “another one of your scenic detours”. We laughed it off, though, and by the time we rolled up to this light and airy contemporary holiday home in the countryside village of Tacumshane, near Rosslare Harbour, I was buzzing with anticipation. Would it live up to the pics? One step inside, and blimey, it exceeded expectations – spacious open-plan living with a cracking kitchen, dining spot for proper feeds, and a sitting area with those lush countryside views that make you want to fling open the doors and breathe it all in.

First morning, we wandered down to the local shop for milk and papers, and that’s when we met Tommy, the chap behind the counter with a grin wider than the Irish Sea. He’s lived here all his 72 years, he said, and launched straight into tales of the time a fox nicked his best hen right from under his nose. “Sly as a politician, that one,” he chuckled, eyes twinkling. Over a cuppa in his cluttered back room – which doubled as the village gossip HQ – he quizzed us on England, then regaled us with stories of the annual Tacumshane tractor run. “You lot should come next year; we’ve got more characters than a circus!” We left with free scones and a promise to wave if we spotted his tractor chugging past.

Later that day, strolling along the paths near Rosslare Harbour – just a short hop away – we bumped into Mary, out walking her ancient collie, Bess. She’s the sort who could talk the hind legs off a donkey, and didn’t disappoint. “Yer man from the pub last night swore he saw seals dancing on the strand,” she confided with a wink, before sharing her secret to the perfect soda bread (it involves a whisper to the flour, apparently). We chatted for ages about local lore – the fairy forts up the lane that no one disturbs after dark, and how the harbour fishermen still sing shanties while hauling pots. Her laugh was infectious, proper belly-rumbling stuff, and it made me reflect on how we rush about back home, missing these gems.

Evenings back at the house were bliss – cooking up a storm in that well-kitted kitchen, then sinking into the sofa with views over the fields. One night, neighbour Seamus popped by with a bottle of poitín (don’t ask; it’s lethal) after spotting our English plates. Bald as a coot and twice as chatty, he spun yarns about smuggling brandy back in the day, all with theatrical gestures that had us in stitches. “Life’s too short for dull company,” he declared, clinking glasses.

Staying here felt like being adopted by the village. Those quirky locals – Tommy’s fox tales, Mary’s fairy whispers, Seamus’s smuggler swagger – turned a simple holiday into a proper adventure. Made me think, doesn’t it, how a bit of chit-chat with real characters beats any tourist trap. We left with full hearts, lighter wallets (from all those scone bribes), and plans to return. Wexford’s magic? It’s in the people.