I’ll never forget the drive to Driftwood Premier Sea View Cabin in Ilfracombe – a proper North Devon jaunt that started with me taking a wrong turn near Combe Martin, ending up in a narrow lane hemmed by hedgerows so tall they scraped the roof of our little hatchback. “Blimey, we’re in a hedge maze!” I yelped to my other half, as we reversed into a patch of brambles, picking blackberry scratches off the wing mirrors for ten minutes. Laughable really, but it set the tone for a three-day escape where the real magic wasn’t the sea views (stunning as they were), but the quirky locals we bumped into right from the off. These characters turned our arrival into a proper chinwag fest, full of that warm, windswept Devon hospitality.

Pulling up to the cabin late afternoon, the sun dipping over the Bristol Channel, we were greeted by the owner, a chap called Reg – think grizzled fisherman with a beard like a bird’s nest and eyes twinkling like he’d just spotted a mackerel shoal. “You the London lot? Follow me, but mind the seagulls – they’re proper thieves round here!” he chuckled, leading us along the gravel path with a limp from some long-ago boating yarn he was itching to spill. Reg was a goldmine of local lore. As he handed over the keys, he launched into how the cabin got its name: “Built it meself back in ’98, after the big storm washed half the beach away. Named it Driftwood cos that’s what kept bashing the pilings – bits of shipwrecks from the Spanish Armada, or so I tell the tourists!” We laughed, but you could tell he half-believed it. He pointed out the sea-facing deck, where waves crashed just below, and warned us about the tide: “Don’t go paddling at dusk, or you’ll end up in Wales!” Proper character, Reg was – insisted on showing us his “secret” compost heap round the back, regaling us with tales of composting fish guts to grow the veg that ended up on our plates. We must’ve chatted for half an hour before he wandered off, promising fresh eggs from his hens the next morning.

No sooner had we unpacked than we fancied a stroll to the Tunnels Beaches, just a hop down the hill – those Victorian hand-carved tunnels leading to a sheltered cove that feels like a hidden gem. En route, we met Doris, a pensioner power-walking with a shopping trolley full of pasties from the local bakery. “You staying at Reg’s place? That old sea dog!” she beamed, stopping dead for a natter. Turned out Doris had known Reg since they were knee-high, back when Ilfracombe was all donkey rides and kiss-me-quick hats. “He’s harmless, but don’t let him sell you on his smuggler stories – though mind, there was that time the coastguard found rum in his shed!” She cackled, sharing how the town’s full of “characters like us, weathered by the wind”. We walked with her a bit, her trolley rattling like a cart in a pirate film, and she quizzed us on city life: “Tube trains? Sounds like sardines in a storm! Give me a cliff path any day.” Her gentle ribbing had us in stitches – pure North Devon gold.

Back at the cabin, brewing tea on the sunlit deck, who should pop by but young Jake, the neighbour’s lad, maybe 12, with a fishing rod slung over his shoulder and a face full of freckles. “Reg said you’re city folk – want some bait?” he grinned, thrusting a tub of wriggling lugworms at us. Jake was a livewire, chattering non-stop about his catches: “Bass last week, this big!” Arms wide as the Channel. He plonked down, teaching us Devon slang – “gurt” for huge, “proper job” for spot on – and confessed his dream of skippering a trawler like his grandad. “School’s borin’, but out here? It’s alive!” We shared biscuits, him demolishing half the pack, and he scarpered with a wave, yelling, “Tight lines!”

As the sun set, painting the sea pink, I sat reflecting on the drive’s daft mishap. What a daft start, but these encounters – Reg’s yarns, Doris’s trolley tales, Jake’s wormy enthusiasm – made arriving feel like slipping into a family reunion. In North Devon, it’s the people who drift into your holiday like flotsam on the tide, quirky and unforgettable. Can’t wait to go back.