I’ve just got back from the most stupendous holiday cottage in Norfolk, tucked away in a sleepy village near the Norfolk Broads, and honestly, the real magic wasn’t the thatched roof or the wood-burning stove – it was the quirky locals who made it unforgettable. Picture this: a cosy stone cottage with creaky beams and a garden spilling over with wildflowers, right by a lazy river where herons fish at dawn. But forget the scenery for a sec; it was the characters I bumped into that turned a quiet week into a proper laugh riot.

First up was Bert, the ancient fisherman who lives in a barge moored just downstream. I wandered down one misty morning for a spot of crabbing – you know, those classic Norfolk bucket-and-bait affairs – and there he was, pipe in mouth, regaling me with tales of the 1970s floods. “Lad,” he wheezed, handing me a rusty bucket, “the Broads’ll swallow you whole if you’re not careful. Last time it rained proper, my missus floated off to Great Yarmouth!” I nearly dropped my bait laughing. Bert’s got this deadpan humour, all Norfolk gravel and wisdom, insisting I try his “secret” crab bait: a mix of cheese and engine oil. Tasted foul, caught nowt, but chatting with him over endless cups of builder’s tea was pure gold. Made me reflect on how we city folk rush about, missing these simple yarns.

Then there was Madge at the village pub, The Dog and Duck in a place straight out of a postcard – think low ceilings, roaring fire, and ploughman’s lunches that could feed a family. I popped in for a pint of Adnams after a cycle along the quiet lanes (Norfolk’s flat as a pancake, perfect for pedalling without breaking a sweat). Madge, the landlady with a beehive hairdo and a laugh like a foghorn, clocked me as the “holiday southerner” straight away. “You from Lunnon, eh? Bet you think our tractors block your precious M25!” She wasn’t wrong about my impatience, but she pulled me a perfect pint and launched into stories about the time a seal swam up the River Wensum during a heatwave. “Bloody thing pinched me best pasty!” We ended up swapping lockdown woes – her lot making their own gin from foraged sloes, me admitting I’d turned into a sourdough obsessive. Gentle nudge to the soul, that: Norfolk folk don’t just endure; they thrive with a wink.

Even the WI ladies at the local farm shop got in on it. I’d nipped in for fresh samphire (salty seaside veg, divine with fish) and ended up roped into tasting their latest pickle experiment. Led by Doris, 82 going on 52, with stories of evacuees in the war hiding in the very barns behind the cottage. “We’d share our spam with Jerry if he knocked polite,” she chuckled. Hilarious, heart-warming, and a quiet moment for me pondering my own nan’s tales.

Staying in that cottage felt like stepping into a living storybook, all thanks to these lot. Norfolk’s not just broads and beaches; it’s Bert’s floods, Madge’s seals, and Doris’s pickles. I’m already plotting a return – bait and all.