I’ll never forget the drive to Fairy Cross – that winding B-road from Bideford had me white-knuckling the wheel after I took a wrong turn and ended up splashing through a massive puddle that soaked my windscreen. Proper Devon welcome, that was, with the wipers going berserk like they were auditioning for a rave. By the time I pulled up to the 2 Bed Lodge, I was half an hour late, covered in mud splatters, and questioning my sat-nav skills. But oh, what a sight it was: this cosy wooden lodge tucked into the hillside, fairy lights twinkling on the porch even in daylight, surrounded by those lush Devon hedges buzzing with bees. First impressions? Absolute gem.

No sooner had I lugged my bags inside – past the quirky gnome guarding the door, naturally – than old Mrs. Tregaskis from next door popped over with a tray of scones. “You look like you’ve been mud-wrestling a tractor!” she cackled, her rosy cheeks crinkling like crumpled tissue paper. Must be pushing 80, with a perm that defies gravity and a voice like a foghorn. She’d baked them herself that morning, clotted cream and all, insisting it was “tradition for new folk.” We ended up chatting on the porch for ages about her glory days smuggling cider during the war – or so she claimed. “None of your fancy shop stuff,” she winked. “Proper scrumpy, made us see double and dance on tables.” I was knackered from the drive, but her stories had me in stitches; who needs a pub when you’ve got a human time machine next door?

The lodge itself felt like stepping into a hug – low-beamed ceilings, a wood-burner begging to be lit, and windows framing views of rolling fields down to the Torridge estuary. I dumped my stuff and wandered out to explore the garden, where I bumped into Len, the local handyman fixing a fence. Bloke’s built like a barn door, with hands like shovels and a beard that could hide a family of squirrels. “Fancy a cuppa?” he grunted, nodding at his battered thermos. Turned out he’d lived here 50 years, knew every inch of Fairy Cross like the back of his calluses. Over milky tea that could stand a spoon in, he regaled me with tales of the “fairy folk” – not the Disney sort, mind, but mischievous spirits locals blame for missing socks or wonky gates. “Saw one meself once,” he deadpanned, “dancing in the moonlight by the crossroads. Tasted like gin.” I nearly choked on my brew, picturing him stumbling home from the Clovelly Inn. Len’s the sort who’d fix your car with string and optimism, and his dry wit had me grinning ear to ear.

Later that afternoon, as I settled into the sun-drenched conservatory with a book, young Tom from up the lane cycled by, all freckles and gap-toothed grin. He’s the village postie’s lad, delivers eggs from their hens. “Mum says hello, and don’t you go feeding the badgers!” he yelled, thrusting a carton into my hands before vanishing in a blur of spokes. Proper character, that one – full of questions about “city life” (Bude’s hardly the metropolis, but to him it is). His chatter about ghost ships off Peppercombe and secret smuggling coves nearby had me hooked; Devon kids are born storytellers.

Sitting there that first evening, pint of local Otter Ale in hand, watching the sun dip behind the woods, I had a quiet moment of reflection. Amid the laughter and larger-than-life locals, I realised how rare it is to arrive somewhere and feel instantly woven into its fabric. No screens, no rush – just quirky souls turning a simple lodge stay into something magical. Fairy Cross had me from hello, and I hadn’t even unpacked yet. Can’t wait for day two.