I’ve just got back from an absolute cracker of a holiday in a stupendous holiday home tucked away in the Peak District of Derbyshire, and honestly, the best bit wasn’t the cracking views or the cosy Aga – it was the quirky locals I got chatting to. Perched on the edge of a proper chocolate-box village near Bakewell, the place had this stone cottage vibe with beams you could bash your head on if you weren’t careful (note to self: mind the noggin next time).

First off, there was old Geoff at the village pub, the something-or-other Arms – you know the sort, with a roaring fire and pork scratchings that could chip your teeth. I wandered in on my second evening for a pint of local bitter, and Geoff, who’s been pulling them since the Flood, clocked me as the city slicker straight away. “You from down south, then? Up here we don’t faff about with lattés – it’s flat white or nowt!” he declared, eyes twinkling under his flat cap. We got stuck into yarns about his sheepdog trials; turns out the dog’s won more rosettes than he’s had hot dinners. I was doubled up laughing when he confessed the mutt once herded a flock of tourists off the trail. Proper character, Geoff – reminded me how I need to slow down and natter more back home instead of doom-scrolling my phone.

Next day, I hiked up to Dovedale – those stepping stones across the river are a rite of passage, aren’t they? – and bumped into Miriam, a wiry septuagenarian with a rucksack bigger than her. She was picking bilberries like her life depended on it, face smeared purple. “Fancy a brew and a bakewell tart later?” she hollered, as if we were old mates. Turned out she lives in a nearby farmstead and bakes for the WI. Over tea in her chaotic kitchen (hens clucking outside the window), she regaled me with tales of smuggling cheese across county lines during rationing days. “Derbyshire folk are born stubborn,” she winked. “We’ve got grit in our veins, not muck.” I sat there slurping PG Tips, thinking how spot on she was – my own life’s a bit too polished sometimes; could do with a smidge of that grit.

Even the chap delivering logs to the holiday home was a gem. Dave, with his tattooed arms and van plastered in mud, unloaded a mountain while quizzing me on London life. “Do you lot really eat sushi for brekkie?” he asked, dead serious. I nearly choked on my reply, spinning some nonsense about avocado toast. We ended up swapping numbers – he’s promised to send pics of his prize marrow for the village show. Bloody brilliant.

Staying in that holiday home felt like being adopted by the whole county. The conversations were the real highlight – unfiltered, hilarious, and full of that warm Derbyshire welcome. If you’re after a break that recharges your soul through sheer chit-chat, get yourself to the Peaks. I’m already plotting a return; Geoff’s expecting me for the next dog trials. Cheers to that!