I’ll never forget the drive down to Pembrokeshire – one of those classic British road trips where the sat nav decides to have a midlife crisis just as you hit the winding lanes near New Moat. We’d been chugging along from the M4, kids in the back squabbling over crisps, when suddenly it rerouted us down what felt like a sheep’s personal driveway. Branches scraping the roof, heart in my mouth, and there I was, reversing into a hedge while a farmer on a quad bike gave me the side-eye. “First time in these parts, eh?” he chuckled as I extricated myself. Little did I know, that was the perfect intro to the quirky locals who’d make our stay at this detached countryside gem unforgettable.

Pulling up to the lime green property, I was buzzing with that holiday anticipation – you know, the bit where everything looks better in the flesh. Enveloped by rolling fields in this tiny hamlet, it promised proper rural bliss for our family of four. We parked in the private spot, stepped into the enclosed garden, and inside, the spacious living-dining room hit us with its vaulted ceilings and cosy electric fire vibe. First impressions? Spot on. Hot chocolates in hand, kids glued to the telly, we were sorted.

But the real magic kicked off with the characters we met. Right next door – well, as next door as you get in a hamlet – was Dai, the retired postman who’d lived there 50 years. He popped over with a welcome basket of his wife’s bara brith, still warm. “Made it meself this morning,” he winked, “but don’t tell her that.” Over a cuppa on our first afternoon, he regaled us with tales of the village ghost – a dairy maid from centuries back, apparently haunting the old milking sheds nearby. “Saw her once, plain as day, milking shadows at midnight,” he said, eyes twinkling. The kids were hooked, demanding a midnight vigil (which we vetoed, obviously).

Then there was Mrs Evans from the farm up the lane, who we bumped into while wandering to the local shop in Wiston, just a couple of miles off. She was herding her chickens with a stick and a whistle, looking like she’d stepped out of a postcard. “You staying at the green house? Good on ya – perfect for dodging the rain,” she laughed, pressing a dozen eggs into my hands. We got chatting about her prize cockerel, who’d once escaped and terrorised the post van. “Dai chased him for three fields!” Proper Pembrokeshire gold.

Even at the cosy pub in Clarbeston Road, a quick five-minute drive away, the barman – Tom, with a beard like a wizard’s – pulled us pints and shared how the area’s secret to staying young is “talking rubbish and walking the coast path”. He knew everyone’s business, from the fisherman who caught a shark in the Cleddau estuary to the baker whose scones could “fix a broken heart”. We played cards by our fire that rainy evening, giggling over their stories, feeling like honorary locals.

Reflecting on it now, amid the usual chaos of home life, I realise those chats were the holiday’s heartbeat. Not the views (though they were cracking) or the garden barbecues, but Dai’s yarns and Mrs Evans’ eggs. They reminded me to slow down, listen more. If you’re after a slice of real Wales, this spot’s a belter – quirky folk and all. Can’t wait to go back.