I’ll never forget the drive up to Portrush – or rather, the near-disaster that kicked off our holiday. We’d piled into the car in Belfast, full of excitement for a lazy week by the sea, when halfway along the A2, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly. It rerouted us down some winding back lane near Castlerock, and suddenly we’re dodging a flock of sheep that’d escaped their field. The farmer, a wiry chap with a face like weathered leather, waved us down with a crook-handled stick. “Ach, you’re not the first to get lost here,” he chuckled, eyes twinkling under his flat cap. “Head left at the old chapel, and mind the potholes – they’ll swallow your wheels whole!” We laughed it off, but I was secretly thanking my lucky stars we hadn’t ended up in a ditch.

By the time we pulled up, the sun was dipping low, painting the countryside in that golden glow you only get on the North Coast. Our spot was this cosy first-floor annex on the edge of Castlerock, just a quick hop from Portrush – peaceful as anything, with views stretching out over rolling fields that made you feel miles from anywhere. First impressions? Spot on. It was snug and welcoming, like stepping into someone’s favourite hideaway, and after that sheepish escapade, it felt like a proper reward.

The real magic, though, was the characters we bumped into – it’s those quirky locals who turned our stay into pure gold. First morning, we wandered down to the beach at East Strand, Portrush’s sandy stretch that’s perfect for a bracing walk. There was Seamus, the ice cream vendor from a family that’s been slinging cones there for generations. “Vanilla or hokey pokey, love?” he asked me, with a grin that showed a gold tooth. I went for hokey pokey, and as he scooped, he launched into tales of the Giant’s Causeway giants – “They say Finn McCool himself shaped these cliffs, but don’t tell the tourists, eh? They’d want selfies with the rocks!” We chatted for ages about his days dodging storms to keep the van open, and I walked away with melting ice cream and a belly laugh.

Later that afternoon, over fish and chips from a hole-in-the-wall spot near the harbour – crispy batter, mushy peas, the works – we met wee Mrs. O’Neill, who runs the chippie with her husband. She’s tiny, with hair like steel wool and stories for days. “You staying in that loft up by Castlerock? Smart choice – quieter than a mouse’s whisper up there. But mind the seals down at the harbour; they’re nosier than my lot at closing time!” She winked, sharing how her grandkids terrorise the poor things with selfies from the promenade. We swapped yarns about family holidays gone wrong, and she slipped extra chips into our bag “for the road.”

Evenings were for ambling around Portrush’s arcade lights, where we fell into conversation with Barry, the chap manning the penny slots. “Pull that lever like you mean it!” he bellowed, all broad Causeway accent and infectious energy. He regaled us with legends of the North West 200 races – “Bikes screaming past like banshees, but nothing beats a quiet pint after.” By the end of the week, it felt like we’d made mates for life.

Looking back, amid the laughs and chats, I had a quiet moment on the annex balcony, sipping tea as the sun set over those endless fields. Holidays like this remind you it’s not just the views – it’s the people, the daft stories that stick. Northern Ireland’s North Coast has a way of wrapping you up in its warmth, sheep mishaps and all. Can’t wait to go back.