I’ll never forget the drive down to Cherry Blossom in Kenn, Devon – a proper faff from the motorway, with satnav leading us on a merry dance through narrow lanes barely wide enough for a milk float. We’d barely left the M5 when I misjudged a pothole, splattering mud up the side of our hire car like it’d been mud-wrestling a cow. “Brilliant start,” I muttered to my mate Dave, who was already moaning about his dodgy knee from the hike we’d promised ourselves. But as we trundled into the sleepy village, Cherry Blossom came into view – this cosy thatched cottage tucked into Glebe Farm, all pink-washed walls and blooming cherry trees that looked like they’d been Photoshopped into the Devonshire idyll. First impressions? Pure magic, even with the car looking like a Jackson Pollock disaster.

We’d no sooner parked than old Mrs. Trelawny from next door popped over, a wiry pensioner in wellies and a Barbour that’d seen better days. “You the London lot?” she barked, eyeing our muddy wheels with a grin that showed more gums than teeth. Turned out she’d been manning the village post office since the war – or so she claimed – and within minutes, she was regaling us with tales of the time a fox nicked half the vicar’s chickens. “Sly as a politician, that one,” she cackled, handing over a jar of her homemade blackcurrant jam as a welcome gift. “Don’t go wasting it on toast, mind – slather it on scones with clotted cream, proper Devon style.” Her accent was thick as clotted cream itself, all rolling Rs and dropped Hs, and I couldn’t help chuckling at her insistence that the jam warded off “they pesky midges up from the Teign estuary.” First conversation in, and we were already hooked on the locals’ quirky charm.

Unpacking in Cherry Blossom felt like stepping into a hug – low-beamed ceilings, a wood-burner begging for a log or two, and windows framing the rolling fields towards theExe estuary, just a stroll away. But it was the pub down the lane, The Church House Inn in nearby Kenton, that really kicked off the character parade that first evening. Landlord Mick was behind the bar, a ruddy-faced giant with a beard like a hedgehog’s revenge and stories taller than the church spire outside. “First time in Kenn?” he boomed, pulling us pints of Otter Ale that tasted like liquid hoppy heaven. Over crisps and a ploughman’s, he launched into his epic yarn about the great flood of ’68, when the river rose so high it floated the village ferret club’s hut right into the playground. “Reckon that’s why our ferrets are the best in Teignbridge – got river-swimming in their blood now!” Dave nearly choked on his pork scratching, and I was in stitches, imagining Mick as a lad paddling after the hut with a fishing net.

Then there was young Tom, the farmhand from Glebe Farm itself, who wandered in mid-tale, fresh from mending fences. Barely out of his teens, with freckles and a Devon drawl that made everything sound like poetry, he plonked down beside us and started on about his nan’s ghost that supposedly haunts Cherry Blossom on misty mornings. “Saw her meself last full moon,” he swore, eyes wide as saucers, “waving from the cherry tree like she owned the place.” Was it the ale talking? Probably, but his earnestness had us in fits, especially when he admitted he’d legged it back to the barn screaming like a banshee. “Don’t laugh, you lot – she bakes a cracking pasty, mind!”

As the evening wound down, strolling back to the cottage under a sky full of stars – no light pollution here, just pure, inky blackness – I had one of those quiet moments. Sat on the garden bench with a cuppa, listening to the owls hoot and sheep bleating faintly, I reflected on how these chance chats with Mrs. Trelawny, Mick, and Tom had turned a simple arrival into something special. In the rush of city life, you forget how a few quirky locals can make a place feel like home from the off. Cherry Blossom wasn’t just a cottage; it was a portal to Devon’s beating heart, all wrapped up in characters who’d keep you grinning for days. Can’t wait to go back – mud-splattered car and all.