I’ll never forget the drive to Upper Swell – we’d packed the car with enough cheese and biscuits to last a siege, only for the sat-nav to chuck us down a narrow lane that pinched the wing mirrors on the hedges. A classic Cotswolds welcome, with me muttering about “one more scratch and I’m turning back”. But as we crested the hill, there it was: this cosy little cottage tucked in the grounds of the owner’s home, all light and inviting, like it was waiting just for us. First impressions? Spot on. The open-plan space felt airy and snug, woodburner ready for a cosy night in after tramping the fields.

We’d barely unpacked when we wandered into the village for a pint at the local, and that’s when the real magic kicked off. There was Reg, the chap at the bar with a face like a well-worn map of the hills. “You lot from the smoke?” he grinned, pouring our drinks with hands that looked like they’d wrestled sheep for decades. Turned out he’d lived here his whole life, and over a chat about the best blackberry spots (his were “up by the old mill, but mind the cows”), he regaled us with tales of the time a hot air balloon got tangled in the church spire. Proper storyteller, Reg was – had us in stitches, wondering if half of it was true.

Next morning, strolling towards Stow-on-the-Wold – it’s just a couple of miles, easy amble – we bumped into Mrs Hargreaves, walking her ancient terrier, Percy. She’s the village postmistress, sharp as a tack at 82, with a handbag full of gossip. “New to these parts? You’ll want the bakery in Stow – none of that supermarket rubbish.” Percy promptly rolled in something unspeakable, and she just chuckled, “He’s my excuse for a sit-down.” We ended up nattering for half an hour about her wartime evacuee days and how the pub quiz team once cheated with a hidden phone. Proper characters, these locals; they make you feel like you’ve stumbled into a gentler world.

Later, back at the cottage whipping up a stew in the well-kitted kitchen – dishwasher heaven after a day out – we met the owner himself, popping by with fresh eggs. Tom’s a quiet sort, but once he got going on the badger cull debates and his prize marrow from last year’s fete, you couldn’t stop him. “Grew it on moonlight,” he winked. We laughed about my disastrous attempt at foraging earlier – nettles everywhere but no supper.

It got me reflecting, sat by the stove that evening with a glass of red: we rush about so much back home, but here, it’s the people who slow you down. Reg’s yarns, Mrs H’s wisdom, Tom’s eggs – they turned a simple break into something richer. If you’re after that Cotswolds charm, find a spot like this. You won’t regret it.