I finally made it to Kittery House in Kingswear after a bit of a faff on the road from Totnes. The sat-nav had a right old paddy, directing me down a narrow lane that dead-ended at a cow field, leaving me reversing into a hedge with hedges clipping my wing mirrors like an overenthusiastic gardener. "Bloody typical," I muttered, laughing at myself as I disentangled the car. Still, the sun was dipping low over the Dart estuary, painting everything golden, and there she was – this gorgeous 18th-century stone cottage tucked into the hillside, all wonky windows and climbing roses, just a stone's throw from the water.

I pulled up, lugging my bag up the flower-lined path, and was greeted by Mrs. Penrose, the owner, who popped out like she'd been waiting all day. She's a proper Kingswear character – wiry as a whippet, with a perm that defies gravity and an apron dusted in flour. "You must be the London lad!" she beamed, thrusting a plate of fresh scones into my hands before I'd even crossed the threshold. "Made 'em this morning with clotted cream from the farm down the lane. Don't you go wasting it on jam like those tourists do." Her Devon burr was thick as the cream, and she launched straight into the local gossip: old Mr. Tregaskis next door, who swears his cat predicts the tides better than the shipping forecast. I chuckled, biting into the scone – flaky perfection – and followed her inside.

The cottage hit me like a warm hug. Low-beamed ceilings that had me stooping like Quasimodo, a cosy sitting room with a wood-burner already laid (bless her), and views from every window straight across to Dartmouth, where the ferries chugged back and forth like clockwork toys. Mrs. Penrose wouldn't leave without showing me the "secret" cupboard under the stairs – stocked with her homemade fudge and a dog-eared book of local ghost stories. "Kittery House has spirits, mind," she winked. "But they're the friendly sort. Just don't wake the one in the attic after dark." I raised an eyebrow, half-believing her, and she cackled all the way out the door.

No sooner had I unpacked than there was a knock – Tom, the butcher from the village shop, 200 yards down the hill. He'd spotted my car (everyone spots everyone here) and brought a "welcome" parcel: rashers of bacon from his own pigs and a slab of cheddar "aged longer than my ex-wife's grudges." Tom's a giant of a man, bearded like a pirate, with hands like hams and stories to match. Over a cuppa on the terrace – watching seals bob in the estuary – he regaled me with tales of the time the Dartmouth Castle foghorn scared his cows into the neighbour's veg patch. "Chaos, it was! Veggies flying everywhere. Still, best compost they ever had." His laugh boomed across the water, and I couldn't help joining in, feeling the city tension melt away.

Wandering down to the Royal Dart Yacht Club later that evening – a fiveminute stroll along the estuary path – I bumped into Captain Jenkins, a retired seafarer nursing a pint at the bar. Weather-beaten face, pipe in hand, he clocked my accent instantly. "Up from the smoke, eh? You'll not find better air than this – breathes life into your lungs." We chatted about the ferrymen, those hardy souls who brave the Dart's currents daily. "One of 'em, young Billy, once rowed a lady's corgi across when the ferry was late. Dog swam half the way itself!" Jenkins slapped the bar, eyes twinkling. I bought him another pint, soaking up the yarns as the sun set in a blaze of pink.

That first evening, supping a pint back at the cottage with the window flung wide to the sea air, I had a quiet moment of reflection. Here I was, surrounded by these quirky Kingswear folk – Mrs. Penrose's scones still crumbs on my shirt, Tom's bacon sizzling in the pan – and it struck me how a simple mishap on the road had led to this. In the rush of London life, you forget how conversations like these recharge the soul. No wonder Devon pulls you back.