I’ll never forget the drive down to Pembrokeshire – a proper Welsh road trip that started with me taking a wrong turn near Narberth and ending up on a single-track lane with sheep giving me the evil eye. Fifteen minutes of reversing around blind bends later, we finally hit Letterston, hearts racing but laughing our socks off. As we pulled up to this gorgeous renovated barn conversion just a stone’s throw from Fishguard, the anticipation melted away. It looked perfect – off-road parking right there for easy unpacking, and that first glimpse inside promised cosy nights ahead.

We’d barely dropped our bags when we wandered into the village for a pint at the local, the Sloop. That’s where we met Dai, the barman with a beard like a wizard’s and stories longer than the queue at the chippy. “You lot from over the bridge, then?” he grinned, pulling a perfect pint of Brains. Over the next few days, Dai became our unofficial guide. He reckoned the best crab sandwiches were at the Goodwick beach kiosk, just a quick hop up the coast, and swore by the hidden cove near Pwllgwaelod for seals – “But mind the tides, or you’ll be swimming with ‘em!” His tales of smuggling brandy back in the day had us in stitches, especially when he admitted his grandad once hid a barrel in a cow’s udder. Proper character.

Next morning, strolling to the post office for milk, we bumped into Mrs Evans, the shopkeeper who’s lived here since Noah’s ark. She’s tiny, with glasses perched on her nose like a bird on a branch, and she clocked us as holidaymakers straight away. “Barn up the lane, is it? Lovely spot that. My nephew did the reno – proper job.” Before we knew it, she was pressing free flapjacks on us and dishing the dirt on local feuds. “Don’t get me started on old Tom and his goats – they’ve been eyeing up my veg plot again!” We chatted for ages about her glory days entering the Eisteddfod, her Welsh still thick as clotted cream. It felt like stepping into a sitcom.

The coast called after that, an easy drive to those dramatic cliffs everyone raves about. On the beach near Fishguard, we got chatting to a fisherman called Gwilym, mending his pots with hands like leather. “Tourists? Aye, but you’re alright – not like them lot who leave gates open.” He shared his secret for the freshest mackerel (straight off his boat at the harbour) and even sketched a quick map to a smugglers’ cave on a fag packet. That evening, back at the barn, we snuggled in the sitting area – that light, airy mezzanine spot ideal for a film – reflecting on how these quirky locals had turned a simple holiday into something special. I’m usually rushing about back home, nose in my phone, but here? Chatting with Dai, Mrs Evans, and Gwilym made me slow down, really listen. Pembrokeshire’s got the views, sure, but it’s the people who make it magic. Can’t wait to go back for more.