I’ll never forget the drive down to Bath – or rather, the near-disaster that kicked it off. We’d set off from London full of beans, playlist blaring, but about halfway there, I took a wrong turn onto some narrow Somerset lane that felt like it hadn’t seen daylight since the war. The sat-nav lost its marbles, chirping “recalculating” like a stressed-out budgie, and we ended up nose-to-nose with a tractor driven by a chap who looked like he’d stepped out of a Thomas Hardy novel. He wound down his window, flashed a gap-toothed grin, and hollered, “You lot lost? Follow me to the main road, but mind the pheasants!” We tailed him for a mile, waving like idiots when he branched off. Proper hero moment – set the tone for the quirky locals we’d meet all week.

Pulling up to the place had me buzzing with that arrival anticipation, you know? Would it live up to the pics? But blimey, first impressions were spot on. Tucked within the landscaped grounds of a country house, this impressive former barn screamed cosy charm – perfect setup for us, a couple sneaking in some romantic downtime amid family life. Spacious, welcoming, with that lived-in feel that says “kick your shoes off and stay a bit.”

No sooner had we unpacked than we wandered out to explore, and that’s when the real fun started. First up was Derek, the chap who runs the little farm shop round the corner. He’s got this wild beard and a habit of naming his chickens after Roman emperors – “Caesar’s off lay today, love,” he winked as he handed over fresh eggs and a slab of his wife’s homemade fudge. We got chatting about Bath life, and he reckoned the best way to see the city was by bike, dodging tourists on the canal path. “None of that posh parade malarkey,” he said. “Head to the artisan market – proper characters there.”

Sure enough, next day at the market by Pulteney Bridge, we bumped into Madge, a pensioner with a stall piled high with scones that could win Bake Off. She’s lived here 50 years, claims she once danced with a Bee Gee at a village fete (we didn’t dare ask which one). Over cream tea – hers, naturally – she regaled us with tales of the weir’s salmon leaping like they’re in the Olympics, and how the locals still whisper about the ghost in the Pump Room. “Don’t fret,” she chuckled, “he only haunts hungover Aussies.” Her laugh was infectious; we left with enough jam to last till Christmas and a promise to pop back.

Even a stroll through Prior Park Landscape Garden brought characters out of the woodwork. There was Terry, the National Trust volunteer with a limp from “a scrap with a rogue badger back in ’82.” He spent half an hour pointing out hidden follies, dropping gems like how the garden’s Palladian Bridge is the only one of its kind left in Britain – “built by some toff who fancied Venice, but got Somerset mud instead.” We picnicked there, swapping stories, him on local folklore, me confessing how I’d once tried (and failed) to master a proper Bath bun recipe.

Staying here made me pause for a gentle think, didn’t it? Amid the chatter and laughs, I realised how these encounters – raw, unscripted – beat any guidebook. No itinerary needed when quirky souls like Derek, Madge, and Terry turn a holiday into a proper yarn. If you’re after Bath’s heart, skip the selfies; chat to the locals. They’re the real attraction.