I’ve just got back from the most stupendous holiday cottage in Norfolk, tucked away down a leafy lane near the North Norfolk coast, and honestly, the real magic wasn’t the sea views or the wood-burning stove – it was the quirky locals who made it unforgettable. Picture this: a cosy thatched cottage in a village like Burnham Deepdale, with creaky floorboards and a garden spilling over with wildflowers, perfect for a lazy week of bracing walks along the salt marshes and pub suppers. But the characters I met? They stole the show.

First up was old Bert at the village shop-slash-post-office, a proper Norfolk treasure with a face like a weathered barn door and stories longer than a king tide. I popped in for milk and a paper on day one, and before I knew it, he was regaling me with tales of the 1953 floods. “Boy, the water came up to me ruddy neck, and me ma saved the chickens by tying ’em to the roof beams!” he cackled, eyes twinkling behind bottle-top specs. I couldn’t help laughing – here I was, city-soft southerner, nodding along as he measured out my change with a rusty till that probably predated the Blitz. We chatted for half an hour about his pet project: breeding “super pheasants” that could outrun a greyhound. Madness, but brilliant. Made me reflect on how we rush about back home, missing these golden yarns from proper characters.

Then there was the encounter at The Hero pub in Burnham Market – a proper gem with low beams you have to duck and ales that taste like they’ve been brewed by Neptune himself. I was nursing a pint of Woodforde’s Wherry when in strode Madge, the landlady with a laugh like a foghorn and tattoos from her days as a Wren in the war. “You staying at that fancy cottage down by the creek?” she barked, plonking down a bowl of crisps. Turned out she knew the owner from schooldays and launched into a monologue about smuggling rings in the 70s – “Ghosts of the old brandy runners still haunt them dunes, mark my words!” We swapped stories; I confessed my rubbish attempt at crabbing off Brancaster beach that morning (caught one tiny thing that nipped me and scarpered). She roared, slapping the bar: “That’s Norfolk for ya – even the crabs are tough as old boots!” Proper belly laughs all round, and a free round to boot.

Out on the Holkham beach walks, I bumped into eccentric artist type, Percy, fly-fishing in the shallows with a beard down to his knees. “Pike in the channels, lad – bigger than your leg!” he declared, as if it were gospel. We trudged along chatting about seal pups (he swore they’re “sneakier than foxes”) and his failed stint as a thatcher. “Roof caved in on me first go – landlord said I’d reinvented the skylight!” Hilarious, and it got me pondering how these folks embrace life’s cock-ups with a shrug, while I’d be fretting over the insurance.

Back at the cottage, supping tea on the porch as the sun dipped over the marshes, I realised Norfolk’s not just postcard pretty – it’s alive with these one-of-a-kind souls who turn a simple holiday into a proper adventure. If you’re after proper Norfolk character, book yourself in. You won’t regret it.