I’ll never forget the drive down to Woolacombe for our three-day jaunt at Ocean Tide Villa 2 – the sat-nav decided to have a hissy fit just past Barnstaple, sending us on a merry detour through some narrow lanes that made my little hatchback feel like a tank. We ended up with a scraped wing mirror on a rogue blackthorn hedge, but honestly, it was the perfect icebreaker for the quirky locals we were about to meet. By the time we trundled into Mortehoe, bags rattling and the dog, Rufus, panting out the window, I was already chuckling at the absurdity.

Pulling up to Ocean Tide Villa 2 felt like stumbling into a proper Devon postcard. Perched with those smashing sea views over the bay, it’s the sort of pet-friendly cottage that screams “relax and let the tide do the thinking.” We’d barely unloaded the boot when old Mrs. Penberthy from next door popped over, a wiry septuagenarian in wellies and a fleece that had seen better days. “You the London lot with the woofy?” she barked, eyeing Rufus like he was smuggling contraband. Turned out she’d been manning the village post office for 40 years and reckoned every visitor’s dog was a potential sheep-worrier. “Mind you keep ’im on the lead down Barricane Beach,” she warned, thrusting a doggy poo bag into my hand with the force of a rugby pass. “Last lot let theirs off, and it chased a seal pup right into the rock pools. Seals don’t take kindly to townies!” Her cackle was pure gold – gravelly and infectious – and she regaled us with tales of the 1970s hippy influx who’d tried skinny-dipping off Woolacombe Sands, only to be chased off by irate fishermen. Rufus got a surreptitious biscuit for good behaviour, and I was already hooked on her no-nonsense charm.

Inside the villa, first impressions were spot-on cosy: flagged floors, a wood-burner begging for a light, and windows framing the endless Atlantic swell. But it was the doorstep parade that really set the tone. No sooner had we cracked open a cuppa than Dai the postie cycled up – a ruddy-faced Cornishman transplanted 20 years back, with a beard like a Brillo pad and a van that wheezed like an asthmatic accordion. “Parcel for ya already? Nah, just checking you’re not axe murderers,” he grinned, leaning on his bike. Dai’s the sort who knows everyone’s business within a five-mile radius; he launched into a monologue about the local woolly mammoth bones dug up near Mortehoe (“Bigger than your car, mate!”) and the time the village fete’s coconut shy went wrong, pelting the vicar with soggy fruit. “Devon folk are clannish,” he confided, “but give us a pint at the Woolacombe Bay Hotel, and we’ll adopt ya.” His parting shot? A wink and a warning about the “ghostly smugglers” haunting the villa’s garden path at dusk. Rufus barked approval, tail wagging like a metronome.

As the afternoon sun dipped towards the dunes, we wandered down to the beach path, bumping into Tina from the beach café – a tattooed surfer mum with neon hair and a toddler on her hip. “First time? You’ll love it here – pets and all,” she said, sloshing frothy lattes our way. Tina’s lived in Woolacombe her whole life, dodging North Devon waves since she could walk. Over steaming mugs, she spun yarns about the annual pet show at the village hall, where last year’s winner was a dachshund dressed as a pirate (“Arrr, matey!”). “Outsiders think we’re all pasties and past-it,” she laughed, “but we’ve got characters thicker than clotted cream.” Her easy banter made the salty air taste even sweeter.

Sitting on the villa terrace that evening, pint in hand, Rufus snoring at my feet, I had a quiet moment of reflection. Amid the laughter and local lore, I realised how these chance chats – the mishaps, the myths – strip away the city rush. Devon’s magic isn’t just the sea; it’s the folk who make a scraped mirror and a daft detour feel like the best start to a holiday ever. Can’t wait to go back.