I’ll never forget the drive down to Pendragon Pod near Axminster in Devon – a proper faff from the motorway, with satnav taking us on a detour through some narrow lanes that had me white-knuckling the wheel. We’d stopped for a cheeky pasty in Honiton, but in my haste, I’d smeared mustard all over my shirt. “Classy entrance incoming,” I muttered to my other half as we finally pulled up, looking like a Jackson Pollock painting.

Pendragon Pod itself is this cosy little gem tucked into the countryside, all timber and charm, with views over rolling fields that scream proper Devon. But honestly, it was the locals who made the first impressions unforgettable – a parade of quirky characters that turned our three-day jaunt into a right laugh. No sooner had we unloaded the boot than old Reg from the neighbouring farm ambled over, leaning on his crook like he’d stepped out of a Folkestone postcard. “You the pod lot? Mind the badgers – they’ve been at my bins again,” he grumbled, eyes twinkling under his flat cap. Reg’s got stories for days: born in the next village over, he’s seen Axminster carpets go from local looms to global fame, and he reckoned Pendragon’s named after some Arthurian knight who fancied the spot for dragon-spotting. “Mind you don’t wake ’em,” he winked, before shuffling off with a wave that could’ve parted the Red Sea.

We hadn’t even unpacked when we wandered down to the village pub – The Lamb, a stone’s throw away, all low beams and roaring fire. There was Tina behind the bar, a wiry force of nature with a Brummie accent that’d migrated south decades ago. “First time in Devon, love?” she asked, pouring a pint of Otter Ale that tasted like liquid holiday. Turned out Tina’s a Pendragon regular; her cousin built the pod back in the ’90s from old tractor parts or summat mad like that. She regaled us with tales of the area’s smuggling heyday – “Casks of brandy hidden in church pews, right under the vicar’s nose!” – while her mate Barry, a retired fisherman from the coast five miles off, chipped in about the time he hooked a shark off Seaton. Barry’s the sort who calls everyone “me old beauty” and swears the pod’s hot tub is haunted by a friendly ghost who only bubbles on full moons. We were in stitches, nursing our drinks as the sun dipped behind the hills.

Next morning, first impressions still buzzing, we nipped to the weekly market in town – a riot of stalls hawking clotted cream fudge and fresh crab. That’s where we met Dot, the octogenarian queen of gossip, flogging her homemade jams from a trestle table. “Pendragon Pod? Oh, darlin’, you’re in for treats. Stay clear of the bull in the top field – he’s got a roving eye!” Dot’s lived here 60 years, seen floods and festivals, and her laugh’s infectious, like a cackle from a Cornish pasty. She slipped us a jar of blackcurrant jam “on the house” after hearing we’d driven through mustard-gate, insisting it’d “sort out any stains on the soul.”

By day two’s breakfast on the pod’s deck – watching sheep amble by – I found myself reflecting gently amid the chatter. These encounters, so unscripted and warm, made me realise how a place like this strips away the city rush. Reg popped by again with eggs from his hens (“Fresh as a daisy!”), and we swapped numbers with Tina for next time. Pendragon Pod’s magic isn’t just the views or the quirky build – it’s the locals, the living tapestry of Devon life that wraps you up from the off. If you’re after a holiday laced with laughter and lore, this is your spot. We left already plotting a return, mustard stains and all.