I’ll never forget the drive down to Narberth – sat nav insisting we take some winding back lane that turned into a proper comedy of errors when we hit a flock of sheep blocking the way. There I was, honking gently while this farmer in wellies ambled over, pipe in mouth, grinning like he’d planned the whole thing. “New to these parts, are ya?” he chuckled, waving us through with a nod. “Mind the bends, mind!” By the time we arrived, hearts racing a bit, I was buzzing with that proper holiday anticipation – you know, the kind where you imagine cracking open a cold one and forgetting the world.

Pulling up to this grand Georgian townhouse right in the heart of Narberth, with its own hot tub and parking spot (a godsend in a place like this), my first impressions were spot on. It felt like stepping into someone’s posh nan’s house – all welcoming nooks and that lived-in charm that screams “relax here”. We dumped the bags and headed straight out, keen to soak up the vibe.

First character we bumped into was Dai at the local bakery on the high street, barely five minutes’ wander away. Bloke must be pushing 70, with a laugh like a foghorn and stories for days. “You staying long, then?” he asked, slathering butter on a Welsh cake that was still warm from the oven. Turned out he’d lived here all his life, regaling us with tales of the time the river flooded and half the town ended up paddling to the pub. “Mind you,” he winked, “that’s when the best yarns come out.” We left with enough cakes to sink a ship and a standing invite to his karaoke night – quirky doesn’t even cover it.

Later, strolling past the little independent shops, we got chatting to Megan behind the counter at the bookshop. She’s this whirlwind of energy, all bright eyes and wild curls, recommending dog-eared paperbacks about local smugglers. “Narberth’s full of secrets,” she confided, leaning in like we were mates. “Like old Mrs Evans up the road – swears she’s got a ghost in her attic that nicks her biscuits.” We laughed till our sides hurt, and I couldn’t help reflecting on how these chats make you realise how rare it is to talk properly with strangers back home. In the rat race, you forget how much fun a daft story can be.

Evening rolled in, and there was Tom from the butcher’s, popping by the hot tub fence (thin walls in these townhouses!) with a cheeky wave and a slab of local lamb for our barbecue. “Heard you lot laughing earlier,” he bellowed. “Fancy a pint at the Angel later? Live music tonight – proper ceilidh stuff.” We did, and it was brilliant – him leading a conga line of locals, all ages, twisting through the pub like it was 1985.

Those encounters made the whole trip. Not the views or the tub (though both ace), but Dai’s cakes, Megan’s ghost tales, Tom’s lamb and that sheep farmer’s grin. Made me think – maybe I need more mishaps in my life to meet folk like that. Narberth’s a gem for it. Can’t wait to go back.