I’ll never forget the drive up to Buxton – satnav had me convinced we’d make it in under two hours from Manchester, but no, a cheeky sheep decided to stage a sit-in right in the middle of the A6, holding up half of Derbyshire. We were stuck for 20 minutes, honking half-heartedly while this woolly diva eyed us like we’d personally offended her. By the time we rolled into town, I was buzzing with that proper holiday anticipation, windows down, inhaling the fresh Peak District air.

Pulling up to the second-floor apartment in the Pavilion Gardens was pure magic – right in the heart of those 23 acres of lush Victorian parkland, with ornamental lakes glittering and the miniature railway chugging along like something out of a storybook. First impressions? Spot on. It’s got that perfect Buxton vibe: green spaces on your doorstep, the café wafting bacon butty smells, and the whole town’s cultural buzz just a stroll away. We dumped the bags and headed straight out, already plotting pub stops.

But the real gems of the trip? The characters we met – Buxton’s full of them, proper quirky locals who make you feel like you’ve stumbled into a sitcom. First up was Derek at the Pavilion Gardens café, mid-60s with a beard like a wizard’s and stories for days. “You here for the cavern?” he asked, pouring my tea strong enough to strip paint. Turned out he’d worked the miniature railway for 30 years, regaling us with tales of kids who’d once smuggled a hamster aboard. “Escaped at the tunnel – we called it Hamster Halt ever since!” We laughed till our sides hurt, and I reflected there, sipping that tea, how chats like that beat any fancy itinerary.

Wandering into town, we bumped into Maureen outside the Dome – she’s the unofficial mayor of Buxton’s indie shops, or so she claims. Tiny woman, massive personality, doling out recommendations like “Skip the chains, love, try the pork pie at the butcher’s – it’s got attitude.” She’d lived there since the war, she said, and launched into a yarn about spotting otters in the lakes at dawn. “They’re cheekier than the tourists!” We ended up buying half her suggested souvenirs, including a hilariously rude postcard of Solomon’s Temple that I’m saving for my mate.

The next day, strolling to Poole’s Cavern – just a mile off – we got chatting with Tom, a caver who looked like he’d been born in wellies. “First time underground?” he grinned, showing us echo tricks in the limestone chambers. His accent was pure Peak District poetry, full of “thees and thous,” and he swore the woodland trail to Solomon’s Temple was haunted by a friendly ghost who only appears to lost walkers. “Keeps you on the straight and narrow!” By the time we waved him off, I was knackered from laughing more than hiking.

Even at Go Ape, swinging through the trees, we met siblings – local lads, Gaz and Loz – who’d done the course 50 times. “Watch for the squirrels, they nick your snacks mid-zip!” Gaz yelled as I flailed about. Their banter had the whole group in stitches, turning what could’ve been a sweaty thrill into a proper laugh riot.

Looking back, it wasn’t the views or the walks that stuck – though they were cracking – it was these encounters. Made me think how a holiday’s nothing without the people, the daft chats that turn strangers into mates. Buxton’s got soul, and I’m already plotting a return to hear what Derek’s hamster’s up to next.