I finally made it to Canaston Bridge after a bit of a faff on the A478 from Tenby – nothing major, just me taking a wrong turn onto a narrow lane and ending up nose-to-nose with a sheepish farmer in his battered Land Rover. He gave me a cheery wave and a "No worries, lad, happens to the best of us!" as we reversed in unison. Proper Welsh welcome, that. By the time I pulled up to the 2 Bed Lodge, I was already grinning, the SatNav silenced and the Pembrokeshire countryside rolling out like a green quilt under patchy blue skies.

The lodge itself? Spot on for a cosy getaway. Tucked just off the main road in Canaston Bridge, it's one of those wooden-clad beauties with a pitched roof and a little deck peering over a babbling brook – the Eastern Cleddau, if you're into your rivers. I parked on the gravel patch, gravel crunching under my trainers, and hauled my rucksack up the steps. First impressions: immaculate inside, all pine beams and squishy sofas, with a kitchen that screamed "whip up a fry-up here." The two bedrooms were snug as a bug, one with a double overlooking the water, the other a twin with views of the neighbour's hens. I dumped my bags and cracked open a window – fresh air hit like a tonic, mingled with the faint whiff of woodsmoke from somewhere nearby.

But honestly, it was the locals who stole the show from the off. No sooner had I unpacked a brew than there was a knock at the door. Enter Dai, the chap who looks after the lodges – mid-60s, flat cap perched like it was glued on, with a beard that could hide a pasty. "Alright there? Saw you arrive – thought I'd pop over with some eggs from me girls out back." He thrust a carton into my hands, still warm from the nest. We got chatting on the deck about his glory days racing pigeons (turns out he's won cups as far as Haverfordwest). "Pigeons, see, they're like us lot here – homing instinct strong as steel, but get 'em near Saundersfoot beach and they're off chasing chips!" I nearly snorted my tea. Dai's got that dry Pembrokeshire wit, the kind that sneaks up on you.

Next morning, first full day, I wandered down to the bridge – five minutes' stroll – and bumped into Mrs. Evans at the bus stop. She's the postie, or was, now retired but still cycling everywhere on her rusty bike. "Holiday boy, eh? Don't go getting lost like that posh lot last week – ended up in Jeffreyston thinking it was the sea!" We laughed about the tourists who mistake every puddle for Coppet Hall Beach. She reckoned the best chips in Saundersfoot are at the takeaway by the harbour, but only if you ask for 'em extra crispy. "None of that soggy rubbish!" Her stories painted the village like a sitcom: the time the pub landlord bet he could down a pint faster than the tide came in at low water, and lost spectacularly.

By lunchtime, I'd met young Tommo at the local shop – a lad no older than 20, stacking shelves with the enthusiasm of someone who'd rather be surfing Wiseman's Bridge. "Staying at the lodge? Wicked! My nan lives next door – she'll have you round for bara brith before you know it." Sure enough, nan appeared that arvo with a plate of the stuff, sticky and divine. Over tea on my deck, she regaled me with tales of the old mill by the river, how her grandad used to fish for trout there with nothing but a bent pin. "Life was simpler, see. Now it's all Airbnb and whatnot, but you get the real Canaston if you chat proper."

Chatting with these characters, kettle on repeat, I had a proper moment of reflection. Sat there on the deck that second evening, brook gurgling below, I thought how easy it is to zoom past these spots on the way to flashier beaches. Me, rushing through life like that sheepish drive in – always chasing the next turn. But Dai, Mrs. Evans, Tommo and nan? They're the heartbeat of it all. The lodge was perfect, yeah – quiet, comfy, right in the thick of it – but it's their quirky yarns that made those first impressions unforgettable. Three days in Saundersfoot, and I was already plotting a return.