I’ll never forget the drive down to Lymington last month – sat nav had me convinced I’d shaved off half an hour by taking that cheeky shortcut through the Forest, only for a flock of those cheeky New Forest ponies to block the road, munching away like they owned the place. I sat there, engine off, laughing at myself for thinking I could outsmart the locals’ four-legged mates. Twenty minutes later, I rolled into town, heart lifting at the sight of the salty air and yachts bobbing on the Lymington River. Spotting the smart and spacious first-floor apartment for four guests overlooking the bustling Town Quay, I felt that proper holiday buzz – windows flung open to the hum of chatter and the tang of fish and chips wafting up.

First impressions? Spot on. It was all light and airy, perfect for kicking back after the drive. But honestly, what made the whole stay were the characters milling about down on the quay. There was Madge, the no-nonsense fishmonger with a laugh like a foghorn, who’d been slinging mackerel since before I was born. “Fresh as your gran’s laundry, love!” she bellowed as I wandered down for supper, handing over a glistening sea bream with a wink. We got chatting about the regatta – she reckoned the skippers were more interested in the pub than the prizes. “You watch, that one in the red yacht’ll be three pints deep by noon tomorrow,” she cackled. Couldn’t argue; her stories had me in stitches, proper local lore about smuggling antics from way back.

Then there was Geoff, the retired ferryman nursing a pint outside the Ship Inn, right by the water. I’d popped out for a walk along the harbour, and he roped me into a natter about the Wight ferries. “Seen it all, I have – storms that’d curl your toes, and tourists who think they’re Christopher blooming Columbus.” His eyes twinkled as he mimicked a Yank trying to parallel park a gin palace yacht. We ended up swapping tales for an hour; he even sketched a dodgy map on a napkin showing the best pony-spotting spots along the river path. Proper gent, Geoff – reminded me how I’ve been rushing about back home, forgetting to just sit and yarn.

The next day, strolling to the Saturday market, I bumped into wiry old Bert from the chandlery, fiddling with ropes like a sailor born to it. “New Forest’s not just ponies and paddocks, duck,” he grinned, “it’s this lot keeping the sea in our veins.” He dragged me over to try his wife’s homemade fudge – sticky fingers and all – while regaling me with how the quay used to host bare-knuckle boxing matches back in the day. “None of your Health and Safety nonsense then!” I left with a bag of treats and a belly laugh, thinking how these encounters beat any guidebook.

It got me reflecting, mid-sip of tea on the balcony that evening, watching the river traffic: we’re all a bit like those ponies sometimes, wandering off track, but it’s the quirky folk who pull you back with a grin and a story. Left Lymington chuffed to bits, already plotting a return for more quay-side chinwags. If you’re after a proper New Forest escape, this is the ticket – characters included.