I’ll never forget the drive down to Oxfordshire last month – me behind the wheel of our trusty old Volvo, sat-nav chirping away like it had a personal grudge. We were aiming for this cracking little cottage just minutes from junction seven or eight on the M40, tucked away in the hamlet of North Weston, only a mile from Thame. But halfway there, disaster struck: a rogue pheasant decided to play chicken with the car right on a narrow B-road. I swerved, heart in my mouth, and ended up in a ditch with the wing mirror dangling like a wonky earring. No harm done, thank goodness, but it certainly kicked off the trip with a bang. Still, as we finally rolled up, the anticipation bubbled over – that first glimpse of the cottage, all cosy and welcoming in its rural spot, with a bus stop right at the end of the drive. Great first impressions, I thought; this was going to be proper.

Unpacked and settled, we wandered into Thame for a pint, and that’s when the real magic – or should I say, the characters – started unfolding. First up was Mick, the chap behind the bar at one of the pubs on the high street. Proper Thame local, with a handshake like a vice and stories that could fill a book. “You from up London way?” he asked, eyeing my accent. Turned out he’d worked the farms around here for decades, and over a cheeky half of bitter, he regaled us with tales of the time a cow wandered into the leisure centre car park during a heatwave. “Bloody animal thought it was a spa day,” he chuckled, and I couldn’t stop laughing. His missus, popping in later, chimed in about the best chippy in town – none other than the one round the corner, run by her cousin.

Next day, we hopped on the bus from the end of the drive to Oxford – dead easy – and on the way back, struck up a chat with Doris, a silver-haired firecracker in the seat opposite. She was off to Haddenham station, about five miles down the road, to visit her grandson. “Don’t bother with the trains to London unless you fancy a nap,” she winked. “But for a day out at Waddesdon Manor, it’s a doddle.” Doris had that quintessentially British quirk: a thermos of tea and a packet of Hobnobs to share, insisting we try her shortbread recipe scribbled on a napkin. Proper heart-warmer, that one.

Even closer to home, the neighbours in North Weston were gems. Old Ted from the adjacent farm ambled over one evening with a basket of eggs – “Fresh as a daisy, love,” he said, before launching into his obsession with the Chiltern Open Air Museum just nearby. “They’ve got a blacksmith there who could mend your wing mirror in a jiffy,” he joked, not knowing about our pheasant drama. We ended up round his firepit, him spinning yarns about village fetes gone wrong, like the year the tug-of-war rope snapped into the duck pond.

Staying there made me reflect a bit – in our hectic lives, we forget how these quirky souls keep places like this ticking. No grand sights needed; just good crack with locals who treat you like family. If you’re after a holiday that’s more about the people than the postcard, this corner of Oxfordshire’s hard to beat. We’re already plotting a return.