I finally made it to Saundersfoot after a bit of a faff on the road from Narberth – nothing major, just me taking a wrong turn onto a narrow lane that had me reversing into a hedge while a sheep eyed me suspiciously from the verge. Typical me, innit? But as I pulled up to Hornbeam Lodge 5, that little mishap melted away. Tucked in a quiet spot just a short stroll from the beach, this cosy lodge looked like it was straight out of a postcard: cream-rendered walls, a neat patio begging for a cuppa, and those big windows promising sea glimpses. I was knackered from the drive, but buzzing to settle in for my three-day jaunt.

No sooner had I lugged my bags through the door than I met my first character: Mrs. Evans, the owner, who popped round with a welcome basket of Welsh cakes and a flask of tea stronger than a wrestler's handshake. She's a proper Saundersfoot stalwart, lived here 40 years, with a laugh like a foghorn and stories that tumbled out faster than the tide. "Mind the seagulls, love," she warned, eyes twinkling. "They're craftier than the locals – pinched my husband's specs last summer!" We chatted on the doorstep about the village's heyday, when fishing boats ruled the harbour and everyone knew your business before breakfast. Her tales of quirky fishermen mending nets with bits of old bike chain had me in stitches. By the time she left, I'd already felt like I'd known her forever.

Wandering down to the beach for my first proper look, I bumped into Dai the Ice Cream Man, parked up in his van with a queue snaking round like it was festival season. He's a wiry chap in his 70s, with a flat cap and a grin full of mischief, doling out 99s while regaling punters with his "saucy" jokes – the kind that'd make your nan blush but leave you chuckling. "What brings you to our little paradise, then?" he asked, handing over a cornet piled high with Mr Whippy. I told him about the lodge, and he launched into how Saundersfoot's sands have "healing powers" – cured his rheumatism, apparently, after a lifetime hauling crab pots. We got on to the locals' feud over the best chippy (his vote went to the one by the quay, obviously, since he supplies it), and he swore the secret to a perfect batter was a splash of Pembrokeshire spring water. Proper character, Dai – I reckon he could talk the hind legs off a donkey.

Back at the lodge that evening, as I fired up the barbecue on the patio, the neighbour, Tom from next door, leaned over the fence with a beer in hand. He's a retired postman, all wiry beard and twinkly eyes, who's cycled every inch of the coast path. "New here, eh? Don't let the calm fool you – Saundersfoot's full of characters like me!" We ended up swapping yarns over sausages; he reckoned the village's magic was in its people, not the scenery. Told me about old Gwilym, the harbour chap who still rows out daily at 82, claiming the sea keeps him young, and how the pub quiz team once cheated with a hidden phone but got rumbled by the landlady's eagle eye. Tom's gentle ribbing about my hedge-reversing story had us howling – "You've fitted right in already, lad!"

Sitting there later, pint in hand, watching the sun dip over the bay, I had a quiet moment of reflection. In the rush of life back home, I forget how these chance chats with proper folk – the Mrs. Evanses and Dais of the world – recharge the batteries like nothing else. Hornbeam Lodge 5 wasn't just a cracking spot with its snug lounge and sea-view kitchen; it was the launchpad for these Saundersfoot encounters that made arrival feel like coming home. Can't wait to see who tomorrow brings.