I finally made it to No.2 The Vista in Woolacombe after a bit of a faff on the drive down from Bristol. I'd taken the scenic route along the A39, past those rolling Devon hills dotted with sheep that always look like they're plotting something cheeky, but about five miles out, I managed to get stuck behind a tractor trundling along at what felt like snail's pace. Proper Devon style – no honking or rushing, just me giggling to myself as the farmer gave a lazy wave through his wing mirror. By the time I pulled up to the cottage, I was already in holiday mode, ready for three days of proper unwinding.

No.2 The Vista is one of those classic seaside cottages, perched up on Willingcott with killer views straight out to the Atlantic. From the moment I stepped through the door – after fumbling the keycode like a right numpty – I was hit with that cosy, lived-in charm. Whitewashed walls, a telly in the corner begging for Corrie reruns, and a kitchen that screamed cream teas. But honestly, it was the people I bumped into right off the bat that made the first impressions unforgettable. Devon locals have this way of turning a simple hello into a full-blown yarn.

First up was Barry, the neighbour from the cottage next door, who was tinkering with his rusty beach buggy when I arrived. He's about 70, with a beard like a Brillo pad and a voice like gravel from years of shouting over waves. "You the Londoner, then?" he bellowed, eyeing my hire car like it was an alien spaceship. I admitted I was from up country, and before I knew it, he was regaling me with tales of the 1970s surf boom in Woolacombe. "Back then, we'd have celebs washing up on the beach after a night on the lash – proper mad times!" He chuckled, showing me a faded photo on his phone of him posing with a board taller than me. Barry's the sort who knows every nook of Mortehoe Beach – five minutes down the path from the cottage – and warned me about the sneaky rips. "Don't be daft like that influencer last summer; she ended up in Lundy Island!" We ended up chatting for half an hour about his glory days entering the Woolacombe Surf Classic, him mimicking wipeouts with theatrical arm flails that had me in stitches.

Wandering down to the beach that first afternoon, I met Doris at the ice cream van parked near the dunes. She's a Woolacombe fixture, 82 if she's a day, with a peroxide bob and earrings like chandelier drops. "First time here, love?" she asked, dolloping a 99 onto my cone with military precision. Turned out she'd run that van for 40 years, surviving storms that battered the coast worse than a tabloid scandal. "The gales in '87? Took the roof off the lifeboat station – I was scooping flakes in horizontal rain!" Her eyes twinkled as she leaned in, whispering about the "ghost ship" sightings off Baggy Point, just a couple of miles along the cliffs. Proper spine-tingler, but delivered with a wink and a free sprinkle. Doris reckoned the best pasty in Devon was from the bakery round the corner in Mortehoe village – "None of that tourist tat" – and I filed it away, already feeling like I'd adopted a nan for the weekend.

That evening, as the sun dipped behind the headland, painting the sea all golden, I nipped to the local shop for milk and bumped into Tommo, the butcher with arms like hams and a tattoo of a pint on his forearm. "Staying at The Vista? Smart choice – views to die for, but mind the seagulls; they're pikeys round here." He laughed, a booming guffaw that echoed off the shelves, and slipped me a discount on some Devon pork scratchings. Over the counter chit-chat, he moaned good-naturedly about the influx of van-lifers clogging up the National Trust car park at Woolacombe Sands. "They park like they've never seen a cliff before! But you? Proper guest. Fancy a tip for crab fishing off the rocks tomorrow?" Tom's the king of local lore, rattling off stories of smuggling dens hidden in the caves below Willingcott Valley, all with that deadpan humour that leaves you grinning.

Sitting on the cottage terrace that night, pint in hand, gazing at the waves crashing under a starry sky, I had one of those quiet moments. Amid all the banter with Barry, Doris, and Tommo, I realised how these quirky characters – salt-of-the-earth types with stories etched deeper than the tide lines – make a place like this sing. In the rush of city life, I forget to slow down for proper natter, but here at No.2 The Vista, it felt like coming home to the best kind of strangers. First impressions? Bloody brilliant. Can't wait for day two.