I’ll never forget the drive to Primrose Lodge—our little three-day escape to Roadford Lake in Devon. We’d piled into the car in Bristol, full of excitement for some proper countryside downtime, only for me to take a wrong turn somewhere near Okehampton and end up on a single-track lane that seemed to go on forever. Branches scraped the roof like it was auditioning for a horror film, and just as I was muttering about sat-navs being possessed, we hit a massive puddle that sent muddy water splashing up like a biblical flood. Laugh out loud, we arrived looking like we’d been mud-wrestling, but hey, it was the perfect icebreaker for the locals.

Pulling up to Primrose Lodge itself was pure magic—tucked right on the edge of Roadford Lake, with its wooden deck overlooking the water shimmering under that soft Devon sun. The lodge is one of those cosy hot tub havens, all rustic charm with a veranda begging for evening gins. But it was the people we met straight off that turned our arrival into the highlight. First up was Derek, the cheery caretaker who’d been pottering about since dawn. He’s this wiry bloke in wellies, with a beard like a bird’s nest and a handshake that could crush walnuts. “You the London lot?” he grinned, eyeing our mud-splattered Peugeot. “Don’t worry, love, I’ve seen worse. Last lot reversed into a hedge.” We chuckled, and over a cuppa he regaled us with tales of the lake’s fishing legends—how his mate once hooked a pike the size of a torpedo but lost it to an otter. “Cheeky buggers, they are,” he winked. Derek’s the sort who makes you feel like you’ve known him forever, dishing out tips on spotting kingfishers from the deck while pretending not to notice my other half’s dodgy parking.

No sooner had we unpacked than we wandered down to the lake’s edge for a nose around, and that’s when we bumped into Maureen and her Jack Russell, Tinker. She’s the queen of the angling club, or so she claims, with a fag dangling from her lip and stories that’d make your eyes water. “Newbies, eh? Don’t go feeding the ducks—last daft sod did and they marched on his caravan.” We got chatting about the reservoir’s history—built in the ‘80s, it flooded whole farms, ghosts of which still spook the fishermen at dusk. Tinker yapped approval as Maureen shared her secret to perfect pasties (clotted cream on the side, naturally), all while fixing us with that knowing Devon stare. It was impossible not to laugh when she confessed to once mistaking a heron for a drone and pelting it with stones. “Turned out it was just ‘andsome Herbert testing his gizmo. Owed me a pint after!”

By teatime, we’d met young Tom from the neighbouring lodge, a lad in his twenties with tattoos and a van full of kayaks. He was rigging up for a sunset paddle and insisted we join for a quick spin—free lesson included. “Locals only charge for the bruises,” he joked, his accent thick as clotted cream. Tom’s got that easy Devon banter, rabbiting on about growing up chasing cows and now running wild swimming sessions for “posh folk from the smoke.” We didn’t paddle, mind—too knackered from the drive—but his yarns about the lake’s mythical “beast” (a submerged tractor tyre, apparently) had us in stitches. Over sausage rolls he’d rustled up, he pondered aloud if us city types ever tire of the grind. Made me reflect a bit, actually—sitting there on the deck as the sun dipped, pint in hand, watching swallows dart over the water. Amid all the quirky chatter, it hit me: we rush about so much back home, missing these simple connections that recharge the soul.

Those first impressions at Primrose Lodge weren’t just about the stunning lake views or the bubbling hot tub waiting for us—they were etched by Derek’s gravelly laughs, Maureen’s saucy tales, and Tom’s infectious grin. In Devon, it’s the characters who make the magic, turning a muddy arrival into memories that’ll have us grinning for months. Can’t wait to go back.