I’ll never forget the drive down to Saundersfoot – we took a wrong turn just past Carmarthen, ending up on some narrow lane that had us convinced we’d stumbled into a cow parade. The satnav was having a right old laugh at our expense, chirping away as if it hadn’t just led us into a muddy farm track. But honestly, that little mishap only built the anticipation; by the time we crested the hill and spotted the sweeping Pembrokeshire countryside rolling out below, I was buzzing to get settled.

Pulling up to our holiday spot – this cosy dwelling tucked into the owners’ smallholding – we were gobsmacked by the first impressions. Fantastic views stretching out over fields dotted with sheep, a bubbling hot tub waiting like an old mate, and inside, those plush sofas practically begging us to flop down. We fired up the Smart TV for a bit of catch-up telly while I rustled up supper using the top-notch kitchen gear, then stepped out for an alfresco feast with the countryside as our dining room. Pure bliss after that faffing journey.

What made the whole trip, though, were the quirky locals we bumped into – proper characters who turned a simple holiday into a string of cracking yarns. First off was Dai the postman, who we met ambling past the smallholding on our morning walk down to Saundersfoot beach. He’s this wiry bloke in his seventies with a flat cap and a dog called Tinker that’s half corgi, half mischief. “You lot from up country, eh?” he grinned, eyeing our accents. “Don’t go getting lost in the caves again – had a posh lot from London stuck down there last summer, singing show tunes till the tide turned!” We chuckled, and he regaled us with tales of smuggling ghosts from the old days, pointing out hidden coves along the coast path where Tenby’s just a stroll away but feels like another world.

Then there was Mrs. Evans at the little family-run café in the harbour, serving up crab sandwiches that could make you weep. She’s a widow with a laugh like a foghorn and stories for days. “Holiday, is it? Best time to be here – seals pupping on the rocks, and don’t you dare miss the wispy seaweed man down by the lifeboat station!” She winked, insisting we try her special laverbread – that salty Welsh seaweed mush that’s an acquired taste, but she swore by it for “keeping the tourists regular.” We ended up chatting for an hour about her late husband’s fishing exploits, how he once reeled in a bass the size of a toddler right off Saundersfoot sands.

Even the owners chipped in with their dry wit over a natter by the hot tub one evening. The chap reckoned his chickens were the real bosses of the smallholding, clucking orders at dawn. “They’ve got more personality than half the folk in the village,” he deadpanned, as one hen strutted past like she owned the place.

Reflecting on it now, sat back home with a cuppa, I realise it’s those daft conversations that stick – not the views or the tub (though they were ace). In a world of rushing about, chatting with proper Pembrokeshire folk reminds you life’s about the people, innit? We’re already plotting a return, hoping to catch Dai’s next tall tale.