I’ll never forget the drive to Bourton-on-the-Water – one of those classic Cotswolds jaunts where you think you’re prepared for everything, but then your sat-nav decides to play silly buggers and sends you down a lane narrower than a vicar’s conscience. We ended up wedged between a hedge and a tractor, with me frantically reversing while my other half shouted directions from Google Maps. A proper comedy of errors, but it only added to the anticipation bubbling up as we finally spotted the honey-coloured rooftops of the village.

Pulling up to our cosy little cottage – one of those charming, low-doorwayed spots tucked away in the heart of it all – I was grinning ear to ear. First impressions? Spot on. It felt like stepping into a hug from an old friend, with everything you need right there and the river Windrush gurgling just a stone’s throw away. We dumped the bags and headed out, already buzzing to explore.

Bourton’s full of quirky characters, the sort that make you feel like you’ve wandered into a gentle sitcom. First up was Reg at the tearoom on the High Street, a wiry chap in his seventies with a moustache like a broom and stories for days. “You here for the cream tea, love?” he asked, plonking down scones the size of my fist. Turned out he’d been serving tourists since the war – or so he claimed – and regaled us with tales of the time a famous actor got stuck in the Model Village (apparently trying to “rescue” a tiny plastic cow). We laughed so hard the jam nearly ended up on the ceiling. Proper jam-first-on-the-scone traditionalist, was Reg, and he gave me a right grilling on my own clotted cream faux pas. Lesson learned.

Next day, strolling by the river with a picnic, we bumped into Doris from Birdland. She’s the volunteer who feeds the penguins, a sprightly soul with wellies and a whistle, who insisted on showing us her favourite toucan. “He’s a right diva, this one,” she chuckled, as it eyed our cheese sandwiches suspiciously. Doris had lived here all her life, knew every nesting spot along the Windrush, and whispered secrets about the otters like they were village gossip. “Mind the stepping stones after rain,” she warned with a wink. “Last week, a bloke from London ended up in the drink – trousers and all!”

Wandering the footpaths later, we met Tom, the local rider who runs hacks along the bridleways. Bearded and booming, he was mending a fence when we passed. “Fancy a go on old Mabel?” he offered, nodding at his pony. We declined – I’m more flat-shoes than horsewoman – but he spent half an hour chatting about the farm park up the road, where Adam Henson’s lot put on a show better than any telly. “None of that fancy stuff,” Tom said. “Just real Cotswolds folk and their beasts.”

Evenings were for the pub, where landlady Sheila held court. A no-nonsense type with a laugh like a foghorn, she poured pints and dissected the day’s visitors. “Yanks asking if we’ve got Wi-Fi in the loos!” she hooted. Her tales of Chastleton House ghosts and Hidcote’s hidden gardens had us hooked.

Looking back, it wasn’t the sights that stuck – though Bourton’s a gem – it was these folks. They reminded me how easy it is to get caught up in the rush back home, forgetting to chat to strangers. A week with Reg, Doris, Tom and Sheila? Best tonic going. If you’re pondering a Cotswolds getaway, pick a spot like this and let the characters do the magic. You won’t regret it.