I’ll never forget the drive down to Tenby – or rather, the cheeky detour that nearly turned it into a comedy of errors. We’d piled into the car from Bristol, kids buzzing in the back with crisps and iPads, me navigating via a dodgy phone signal. About halfway, I missed the turning for the A477 and ended up on some winding lane that spat us out in a field. “Welcome to Wales, folks,” I announced, as we reversed past a bemused herd of cows. Laughing it off, we finally rolled into Amroth village just as the sun dipped towards the sea, hearts lifting at the sight of our holiday cottage perched with those jaw-dropping coastal views. From the moment we pulled up, it felt like we’d stumbled into a proper gem – a reverse-plan place, all upside-down charm, with five bright bedrooms downstairs (two twins and three massive doubles, each with its own en-suite luxury) and that open-plan living space upstairs, flooded with light from the skylights. Perfect for us lot.

First impressions? Magic. We dumped the bags and dashed straight up those carpeted stairs to the living room, where the Pembrokeshire coastline stretched out like a postcard. Anticipation had been building all journey, but this blew it away – views right over the bay, Caldey Island winking in the distance. Little did we know the real stars of the week would be the quirky locals we’d bump into.

Take Dai, the chap at Amroth’s pebble beach the next morning. We’d wandered down for a splash in the shallows – Tenby’s just a short hop away, but Amroth’s quieter vibe suited our lazy start. There he was, this wiry fisherman type in wellies, mending nets with a pipe clenched in his teeth. “New to these parts?” he grinned, spotting our pasty English accents. Turned out Dai’s family had fished these waters for generations. Over a brew from his flask (stewed so strong it could strip paint), he regaled us with tales of dodging seals and the time a dolphin photobombed his catch. “Sea’s full of characters,” he winked, “just like the land ones.” We chuckled as he mimicked the posh tourists who ask if the tide’s in yet.

Then there was Mrs Evans at the village shop, a tiny affair stocked with pasties, bara brith and enough gossip to fill a novel. She’s this whirlwind of a woman, apron dusted with flour, with a laugh like a foghorn. “You staying at that fancy upside-down house?” she asked, bagging our milk and eggs. I nodded, and she launched into how her nephew built it – “Proper clever, he is, but don’t tell him I said.” We ended up chatting for ages about Tenby’s harbour life, her warning us off the busiest chippy on a Friday (“Queue’s longer than the lifeboats!”). Her stories of summer regattas and the eccentric boatman who races pigeons had the kids in stitches.

Evenings, we’d head to Tenby’s walls for fish suppers, bumping into more gems like Tom the busker, strumming folk tunes with a dog called Dylan (after the poet, naturally). “What brings you to our neck of the woods?” he’d ask, mid-chord. Over chats about fossil hunts on the beaches and the best clifftop walks to Wiseman’s Bridge, these encounters made the place sing.

Reflecting now, back home with the washing machine groaning, I realise it wasn’t just the views or the en-suites that made it – it was those faces, the Daise and Mrs Evanses, turning a holiday into a proper yarn. Wales works its magic through its people, doesn’t it? We’re already plotting a return.