I’ll never forget the drive down to Newport in Pembrokeshire – sat nav insisting we take a sneaky shortcut through some narrow lanes that turned out to be more like sheep runs. We ended up with a branch wedged under the car’s bumper after dodging a flock at full honk, laughing our heads off as I tried to fish it out with a selfie stick. But as we finally rolled into that charming holiday park on the outskirts, all that stress melted away. The place buzzed with that proper Welsh holiday vibe – fairy lights twinkling, families milling about, and the smell of chips wafting from the on-site restaurant. Our apartment was spot on for the six of us: cosy, modern, with everything you need and a cracking view over the park. First impressions? Bloody brilliant, I thought – sorry, dashed brilliant.

No sooner had we unpacked than we wandered over to the restaurant for a bite. That’s where we met Dai, the chef with a beard like a wizard’s and stories for days. “New to Newport, eh?” he grinned, plonking down plates of fresh mussels that tasted like they’d leapt straight from the sea. Turned out Dai’s family had fished these coasts for generations, and he regaled us with tales of spotting seals at Pwllgwaelod Beach, just a couple of miles up the road. “Mind the otters,” he winked, “they’re cheekier than the tourists.” We were hooked – literally and figuratively – and ended up chatting for hours about his failed attempt at breeding Pembrokeshire Miniature Pigs. “Thought they’d be easy money,” he chuckled, “but they’re stubborn as goats.”

Next morning, fuelled by Dai’s full Welsh breakfast, we headed to Newport Beach, a golden stretch perfect for a paddle. There, we bumped into Mags, a local artist selling her driftwood sculptures from a pop-up stall. She was all wild hair and infectious laugh, insisting we try her “Nevern River Brew” – herbal tea made from foraged bits around the wildfowl reserve. “Keeps the midges at bay,” she said, eyes twinkling. Over cups of the stuff (tasted like dock leaves with a twist of magic), Mags shared how she’d once got lost walking up Carningli mountain, only to stumble on a hidden cove at Aberfforest. “Best mishap ever,” she beamed. We nattered about her quirky life – painting puffins by day, DJing folk nights at the high street pubs by night. One and a half miles into town, those spots sounded tempting: cosy cafes and indie shops run by characters just like her.

Later, strolling the paths by the River Nevern, we crossed paths with Tommo, the birdwatching bloke in wellies, binoculars dangling like a necklace. “Ospreys today!” he declared, pointing out a flash of wings. He was a retired postman with a soft spot for the conservation area’s feathered residents, and his passion was contagious. “Town’s got more characters than birds,” he confided, telling us about the Newport Quiz Night where locals argue over who makes the best Bara Brith. We swapped numbers, promising to join next time.

Looking back, it wasn’t just the beaches or the views from Carningli that made it – though they were stunning – it was these encounters that turned a holiday into something special. Made me reflect on how we rush about back home, missing the chats that stick with you. Newport’s got soul, served up by its quirky lot. Can’t wait to go back and catch up with Dai’s pigs.