I’ll never forget the drive down to Tenby – or rather, the near-disaster that kicked it off. We’d piled into the car in Cardiff, kids buzzing with excitement about beaches and ice cream, when halfway through Carmarthenshire, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly. It sent us on a wild detour down a narrow lane that pinched tighter than my skinny jeans, complete with a rogue sheep blocking the way. I’m honking gently, the farmer ambles over in wellies, gives me a wink and says, “Lost, are ya? Follow the sheep – they know best round here.” We laughed, extricated ourselves, and finally rolled into Pembrokeshire with the sun dipping low, hearts racing but anticipation building. Tenby was calling.

Pulling up to this new Sykes Cottages gem on the outskirts of St Florence – just a quick hop from Tenby – felt like stumbling into a postcard. It’s a stunning family spot with TVs in every bedroom (bliss for bedtime negotiations), partial ground-floor living that’s spot-on for little legs, and those rural views that make you breathe easier. Parked up, crunched over the drive, and there it was: cedar-clad walls glowing in the evening light, a neat paved patio begging for morning coffee. First impressions? Pure magic. We dumped the bags and cracked open a bottle of fizz, toasting our escape.

But the real joy of the week? The characters we met – proper Pembrokshire eccentrics who turned our holiday into a parade of quirky tales. First up was Dai at the Caldey Island ferry ticket booth in Tenby harbour. Bald as a coot, with a beard like a wizard’s, he clocked our kids’ sandcastles-in-progress excitement and launched into, “Right, you lot – mind the seals on the crossing, they’re nosier than my nan at bingo!” We chatted seals and smuggling legends while he snuck us the best spot on the boat. Crossing to Caldey, his stories had us in stitches – apparently, the monks still brew their own beer, “strictly for medicinal purposes, mind.”

Back on the mainland, we wandered Tenby’s walls and bumped into Mrs Evans, the chip shop queen on Tudor Square. She’s tiny, feisty, with a laugh like a foghorn. “First time, eh? Try the cockles – harvested right here in the bay, none of your fancy imports.” Over battered cod and mushy peas, she regaled us with tales of her fisherman dad outsmarting storms: “He’d say, ‘The sea gives, the sea takes – but never my supper!’” The kids were hooked, devouring her yarns as much as the chips.

Then there was Tom, the ice cream man at Broad Haven South beach – a stone’s throw from our cottage. Lanky chap with a van painted like a psychedelic hippy wagon, he doled out 99s while dropping wisdom: “Life’s like a Mr Whippy, innit? Swirl it too fast and it all goes pear-shaped.” We spent an afternoon building epic sand forts, him wandering over for breaks with free sprinkles, chatting about his glory days surfing the Gower swells before settling here.

One evening, strolling Tenby’s North Beach at sunset, we met old Gwen, walking her terrier. She eyed our wind-lashed hair and chuckled, “You English lot always look surprised by the wind – it’s our welcome committee!” Over a bench chat, she shared ghost stories of the old lifeboat house, her eyes twinkling. I found myself reflecting quietly: amid the laughter, how often do we rush past these gems? Strangers turning into mates over a shared horizon – that’s the holiday magic.

By week’s end, we’d collected more stories than shells. Quirky locals like Dai, Mrs Evans, Tom, and Gwen didn’t just point us to spots; they breathed life into the place. Tenby’s beaches, ferries, and pasties were ace, but it was their warmth that lingers. Can’t wait to go back – sheep detours and all.