I’ve just got back from the most stupendous holiday home in the Peak District, this cracking stone cottage perched on a hillside near Bakewell, with views over rolling dales that make you forget the world’s gone potty. But honestly, it wasn’t the fluffy towels or the Aga that made it – it was the quirky locals I chatted with, proper characters who turned a quiet break into a proper chinwag fest.

First off, there was Derek, the shepherd from the farm down the lane. I bumped into him while wandering to the village shop for some Bakewell puddings – none of your fancy vegan rubbish, the real deal with that cherry jam glow. Derek’s got this ancient Border Collie called Sid, who’s more knarled than a Derbyshire oak, and he reckons Sid’s herded sheep since the Flood. “Lad,” he says, squinting at me over his flat cap, “you city folk come up here thinkin’ it’s all Instagram sunsets, but it’s rain, midges, and sheep that nick your socks off the line.” We ended up nattering for half an hour about his glory days racing whippets – turns out he once clocked 28 miles an hour down Tissington Trail. I was doubled over laughing, picturing this wiry bloke chasing dogs on a tandem. Made me reflect on how I never slow down enough back home to hear stories like that.

Then there’s Maureen at the local pub, the Druid Inn in Eyam – you know, the plague village with its eerie history. I popped in for a pint of Marston’s Pedigree after a gentle hike up to Mam Tor. She’s the landlady, built like a prop forward, with stories spicier than her homemade pork scratchings. “Love,” she booms, plonking down my foaming glass, “you staying at old Widow Jenkins’ place? She were a right one – used to hide gin in the privy during rationing!” We got onto the Eyam tale, how villagers quarantined themselves in 1665. Maureen swears her great-great-nan was a scapegoat for smuggling cheese past the cordon. “Cheese!” I spluttered, nearly choking on my Pedigree. “Aye, the cheeky sods thought it were plague-ridden Brie!” Her tales had the whole bar in stitches, locals chipping in with their own embellishments. Sat there nursing my pint, I had one of those quiet moments thinking how conversations like that knit you into a place – proper human connection, not just scrolling on your phone.

Even the chap at Chatsworth Farm Shop got in on it. While stocking up on local cheeses and that divine gooseberry gin, he regaled me with how the Duke’s deer park once had escaped emus running riot in the ’70s. “Proper chaos, them birds!” he chuckled. Derbyshire folk have this dry wit, turning everyday mooches into epic yarns.

Back at the cottage, supping tea on the patio with those golden evening views, I realised it’s the people who make a holiday stupendous. Those chats left me buzzing, a reminder to chat more and fret less. If you’re after a Peak District escape, book this gem – but bring your best listening ears for the locals. You won’t regret it.