I’ll never forget the drive to that 1 Bed Lodge in South Molton – a proper Devon jaunt that started with me taking a wrong turn near Barnstaple and ending up in a muddy farm lane, swearing at the satnav like it was my ex. Three hours from Bristol, and there I was, splattered in muck, laughing at myself as I reversed into a hedge. Classic me, turning a simple A361 scoot into a comedy of errors. But honestly, that little mishap set the tone for the whole three-day getaway – quirky, unexpected, and full of proper characters who made the place feel like home from the off.

Pulling up to the lodge just after lunch on that drizzly Friday, I was knackered but buzzing. Tucked in a quiet spot on the edge of North Molton, barely a couple of miles from South Molton’s high street, it’s one of those cosy wooden numbers with a veranda overlooking rolling fields – sheep everywhere, like nature’s own welcome committee. The owner, a chap called Reg, was waiting at the gate in his wellies, grinning like he’d won the lottery. “You the London lad?” he bellowed, before I’d even parked. Reg’s about 70, with a beard that could hide a badger and stories for days. He handed over the keys and insisted on showing me round, even though it’s tiny – just the one bedroom upstairs, a snug lounge with a wood burner, and a kitchenette that screamed “self-catering heaven”. “Made meself, this did,” he said, tapping the wonky shelf. “Don’t worry, it won’t collapse unless you put a giraffe on it.” I chuckled, already loving his dry wit.

First impressions? Blissful isolation with a side of local lore. Reg wouldn’t budge till he’d regaled me with tales of the village. “North Molton’s got more history than a museum, lad. Romans were here, mind – or was it Vikings? Either way, they left the pub standing.” He pointed me towards The Globe, a stone’s throw away, for a proper pint. Couldn’t resist, so off I trudged, boots still caked from my farm fiasco. Inside, it’s all low beams and roaring fire – proper Devon pub vibes. That’s where I met Doris, the landlady with a laugh like a foghorn and tattoos from her Navy days. “First time in these parts?” she asked, pulling me a pint of Otter Ale without waiting for an answer. “You’ve got city pallor, love. Sit, tell us about yourself.” Before I knew it, I was sandwiched between her and a table of locals, including grizzled farmer Tom, who claimed his cows could predict the weather better than the BBC.

Tom’s the star of my first afternoon – face like leather, hands like shovels, and opinions on everything. “Exmoor’s calling you tomorrow, but don’t go chasing ponies on foot; they’ll have you for breakfast!” he warned, eyes twinkling. We chatted about his prize bull that once escaped and gatecrashed the village fete – “Ate half the vicar’s hat, the bugger did.” Doris chipped in with her own yarn about the time a fox nicked her knickers off the line. “Cheeky sod posted ‘em back with a thank-you note!” Pure gold. I sat there, pint in hand, mesmerised by their banter – no phones, no rush, just stories flowing like the Mole Valley streams nearby. It hit me then, in a quiet moment staring at the fire: how often do us city folk miss this? Proper human connection, unfiltered and daft. Made me reflect on my hectic life back home – maybe I need more of this simplicity.

Wandering back to the lodge as dusk fell, the air crisp with that peaty Devon scent, Reg was still pottering about. “Met the rabble, eh? They’ll adopt you now.” He wasn’t wrong; by evening, my phone buzzed with a text from Doris inviting me for breakfast bacon butties the next day. Curled up on the lodge sofa with a cuppa, watching bats flit past the window, I felt utterly content. Those first impressions – the mud-splattered arrival, Reg’s warmth, Tom and Doris’s yarns – they weren’t just quirky; they were the heart of Devon. Made the whole trip before it even properly started. Can’t wait to go back and hear what those lot have cooked up next.