I’ll never forget the drive up from Edinburgh – we’d rented a cheeky little Fiat, thinking it’d be perfect for the narrow Fife roads, but no sooner had we crossed the Forth Road Bridge than the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly. It kept directing us down what felt like a sheep track, and we ended up doing a three-point turn in a puddle that nearly swallowed the wheels whole. Laughing our heads off, we finally spotted the signs for Kinghorn, hearts racing with that proper holiday buzz. As we pulled up to this stylish second-floor apartment – all homely and refurbished with those lovely period touches – my first thought was, “Blimey, we’ve struck gold.” Nestled in a peaceful spot just a stone’s throw from the sandy bay and harbour, it felt like stepping into a hug from the sea.

Unpacked in no time, we wandered down to the beach, and that’s when the real magic kicked off – the quirky locals. First up was Tam, the harbour fisherman with a beard like a Brillo pad and stories longer than his catch. “Lads,” he grinned, gutting mackerel right there on the quay, “you’re in Kinghorn now – we don’t do rushin’ here. Seen the seals? They’re nosier than my ex-wife!” We chatted for ages about his sea fishing hauls and the Fife Coastal Path snaking past the village. He reckoned the best crab was just off the harbour wall, no bait needed if you’ve got the patter. I tried my hand, but ended up with a soggy sleeve and a lifetime supply of his chuckles.

Next morning, cycling along the coastal path – proper flat-out fun with the wind whipping us – we bumped into Moira at the wee tea shop by the bay. She’s the village postmistress, sharp as a tack with a tea cosy on her head vibe. “You from the south, eh? Edinburgh lot always think they’ve got the monopoly on history,” she teased, pouring us builder’s brews. Turned out she’s a secret Outlander nut, pointing us to nearby spots where they filmed – “Just a hop up the road, mind the midges!” Her tales of local feuds over the best beach parking had us in stitches, and she slipped us fresh scones “for the road,” which we demolished overlooking the harbour.

By afternoon, we’d joined a gaggle of water sports folk at Kinghorn Loch – canoeists mostly, led by big Geordie, a retired sailor with tattoos older than my dad. “Paddle like you mean it!” he bellowed, as we wobbled about. Over flask tea afterwards, he regaled us with loch fishing yarns: “Last week, I hooked a pike the size of my arm – fought like a demon!” His lot were a riot, swapping tips on open-water swims and mountain biking trails through the East Neuk hills. One lad, wee Jamie, swore by the village’s hidden coves for night swims under the stars.

Staying here made me pause one evening, sat on the balcony with a cuppa, waves lapping below. Amid the chatter of these characters – Tam’s gravelly laugh, Moira’s twinkly eyes, Geordie’s booming yarns – I realised holidays aren’t about ticking boxes. It’s the folk who make a place sing. Kinghorn’s got that in spades; we left buzzing, already plotting a return.