I’ll never forget the drive to Okehampton last month – a proper Devon jaunt that started with me spilling half a thermos of tea all over the passenger seat just past Exeter. Nothing major, mind you, just enough to turn my road atlas into a soggy mess and make me curse like a proper numpty. But as the rolling moors of Dartmoor unfolded, with those ancient tors poking up like grumpy old wizards, I couldn’t help but grin. Three days at the 2 Bed Lodge in Okehampton was calling, and I was ready for some proper RandR.

Pulling up to the lodge around teatime, I was chuffed to bits. Tucked just off the edge of town, it’s one of those cosy stone-built spots that screams Devon charm – low-beamed ceilings, a wood-burning stove begging for a fire, and views straight out to the sheep-dotted fields. First impressions? Spot on. The key safe was easy to find (no fumbling in the rain for me), and stepping inside felt like hugging an old mate. The two bedrooms were snug as a bug, with fluffy duvets and that faint whiff of fresh linen. Kitchen sorted for a fry-up, lounge with telly and board games – perfect for a solo wanderer like me. But honestly, it was the locals who turned arrival into an absolute highlight.

No sooner had I unpacked than old Bert from next door popped over with a welcome wave and a Tupperware of his wife’s scones. “New ‘ere, are ya? Don’t mind the sheep choir at dawn – they’re worse than the church bells!” he chuckled, his West Country burr thick as clotted cream. Bert’s a retired farmer, proper Okehampton through and through, with stories of smuggling ponies over the moor back in the day. We ended up nattering on the doorstep for half an hour about the best pub in town (turns out it’s the King’s Arms, five minutes’ stroll away). He reckoned the lodge was “the bee’s knees for ramblers,” and swore by the footpath straight from the garden to the river.

Wandering into Okehampton proper for a pint that evening, I bumped into quirky characters galore. At the newsagent’s, there was Maureen, the shopkeeper with a laugh like a foghorn, regaling me with tales of the time a rogue Dartmoor pony wandered into her stockroom and nicked a bag of crisps. “Cheeky buggers, they are! You staying at that lodge up the hill? Tell ‘em Maureen says hello – I deliver papers there Tuesdays.” Her gossip about local ghost sightings near the castle ruins had me hooked; apparently, some Norman knight haunts the paths at dusk. Proper spine-tingler, that.

Then, at the chippy round the corner, I met Gaz, the fryer with tattoos up to his elbows and a soft spot for stray cats. “Devon’s full of oddballs like me,” he winked, piling my haddock and chips high. “Lodge guest, eh? Watch out for the badgers – they’ve got a den under the bridge. Saw one nick my missus’s washing once!” We chatted about Okehampton’s market days, how the locals still haggle over fudge like it’s 1950, and his failed attempt at beekeeping (“Stung more times than I got honey!”). By the time I headed back, carrier bag steaming, the sun was dipping behind the hills, painting the lodge in that golden Devon glow.

Crunching up the gravel path, past Bert’s glowing window, I paused for a moment of quiet reflection. Here I was, tea-spill survivor, surrounded by these larger-than-life folk who’d made my first hours feel like coming home. In the rush of city life, I’d forgotten how a quick chat with strangers can recharge the soul. Bert’s scones tasted even better by the stove that night, and as I settled into the armchair with a brew, I thought: this lodge, these people – pure magic. Can’t wait to see what day two brings, but blimey, what a start.