I’ve just got back from an absolute cracker of a holiday in a stupendous holiday home tucked away in the Peak District, and honestly, the real magic wasn’t the cracking views or the cosy wood-burner – it was the quirky locals I got chatting to. Perched on the edge of a drystone wall in a converted barn near Bakewell, the place was pure bliss: flagstone floors, a telly bigger than my lounge at home, and windows framing those rolling dales that make you go “ooh” every morning. But let me tell you, it’s the characters round here that turned a good break into a proper laugh riot.

First off, there was Derek, the sheep farmer from the next valley over. I bumped into him at the local farm shop in Youlgrave, stocking up on his homemade pork pies – the man’s a wizard with pastry. “Lad,” he says, eyeing my city trainers caked in mud, “you lot from down south think a brisk walk’s up Mam Tor, but try rounding up my ewes in a gale – that’s proper exercise!” We ended up nattering for half an hour over a brew about his rogue ram that once headbutted a tourist’s campervan. Derek’s got this deadpan wit, all flat vowels and twinkly eyes, and I couldn’t stop giggling. Made me reflect on how I’m always rushing about in London, missing these unhurried yarns that stick with you.

Then there’s Maureen, the octogenarian landlady at the pub in Baslow. She runs the show with a fag in one hand and a pint pot in the other, dishing out crisps like they’re going out of fashion. I popped in after a gentle hike along the Monsal Trail – you know, that old railway path with tunnels that echo like a ghost story. “What’ll it be, pet?” she barked, before launching into how she once danced with a Beatle (or was it a beetle? Her story shifted with the ale). We chatted about the district’s hidden gems, like the secret bluebell woods near Chatsworth, and her tales of dodging floods in ’08 had me in stitches. “Life’s too short for fancy lattes,” she declared, sliding me a bag of her fudge. Proper heartwarming, that – reminded me to slow down and savour the daft moments instead of scrolling my phone.

Wandering the Monsal Head pub later, I got suckered into a chat with Terry, a retired miner turned storyteller. Over a pint of Peak Ales, he regaled me with yarns about lead mines under our feet and the time he “borrowed” a rival’s ferret for a race. His laugh’s infectious, like a steam train chugging up Winnats Pass, and we swapped stories till closing. These encounters made the holiday – not the fancy hot tub (though that was lush after a drenching on Kinder Scout), but the genuine craic.

Back at the barn, supping tea with the dales glowing gold, I pondered how these locals, with their no-nonsense charm, nudged me to chat more, listen harder. If you’re after a Peak District escape, book something like this – the house is stupendous, but it’s the people who’ll have you grinning for weeks. Can’t wait to go back and pester Derek for another pie.