I’ve just got back from the most stupendous holiday cottage in Norfolk, tucked away in a sleepy village near the North Norfolk coast, and honestly, it’s the quirky locals who made it unforgettable. Perched on the edge of the Broads with reed beds rustling outside the window and a wood-burning stove that could’ve hosted its own sitcom, the cottage was pure bliss. But forget the cream teas and coastal walks for a sec – it was the characters I bumped into that turned a quiet getaway into a proper laugh riot.

First up was Derek, the octogenarian farmer who owns the field next door. I met him while faffing about with a rickety barbecue on day one. “Oi, lad, that’s not how you grill a banger!” he bellowed, materialising from behind a hedge with a fag dangling from his lip and a thermos of tea that smelled suspiciously like whisky. Turned out Derek’s been tending sheep since the war – or so he claims – and regaled me with tales of smuggling contraband turnips during rationing. “Norfolk folk don’t mess about,” he winked, slapping on some sausages he’d “liberated” from his freezer. We ended up swapping stories till the sun dipped into the marshes, him insisting I try his “special” chutney (which was basically Branston with a kick). Proper legend, Derek – made me reflect on how I’ve let my own garden go to rack and ruin back home.

Then there was Madge at the local pub, The Dog and Duck in the next village over. A proper Norfolk institution, all low beams and locals nursing pints of Adnams. I popped in for a swift half after a blustery walk along Blakeney Point, seals barking in the distance like they were auditioning for a David Attenborough doc. Madge, the landlady with hair like a bird’s nest and tattoos from her days as a fisherwoman, clocked me as an outsider straight away. “You from Lunnon, then? Come to gawp at our birds?” she teased, pulling a pint with one hand while shooing her tabby cat off the bar with the other. We got chatting about the recent floods – “Buggered the beet crop, it did” – and she swore by a remedy involving cider vinegar and optimism. Her yarn about outrunning a bull on her bike had me in stitches; gentle reminder that city life’s made me soft, huffing up hills while these lot cycle to the horizon without breaking sweat.

Even the postman chipped in. Barry, with his electric bike piled high with parcels, stopped for a natter at the cottage gate. “Heard you’ve met Derek – watch out for the sheep, they’ve got opinions!” He reckoned Norfolk’s coast is haunted by smugglers’ ghosts, pointing out ancient dunes where contraband once hid. Light-hearted bollocks, maybe, but it spiced up my sunset strolls.

Spending time with these lot was better than any spa day. They’re salt-of-the-earth types, full of wit and warmth, turning a simple cottage break into a masterclass in living slow. Norfolk’s magic isn’t just the big skies – it’s the folk who make you feel like you’ve been mates forever. Can’t wait to go back.