I’ll never forget the drive to our holiday spot in the Cotswolds – a proper faff from the start. We’d piled into the car in Bristol, kids buzzing in the back with their crisps and iPads, when halfway down the motorway, the satnav decided to have a hissy fit. “Recalculating,” it chirped endlessly as we veered off into some winding B-road flanked by hedges taller than the car. By the time we spotted the signs for Westonbirt near Sherston, I was sweating more than on a summer hike. But pulling into that generous gravel driveway? Pure magic. The place hit us with this warm glow, neat shrubbery framing a welcoming lawn – first impressions bang on ten out of ten.

It’s a plush pet-friendly house, perfect for our rabble of six plus the dog, with a toasty woodburning stove inside, and out back a massive enclosed garden boasting a hot tub, barbecue, and even a trampoline that had the kids whooping before we’d unpacked. Stepping through the front door into the hallway, we ditched coats and boots, anticipation bubbling – this was going to be the proper countryside escape we’d craved.

What made it, though, were the characters we met. First up was Derek, the butcher in Sherston, just 2.3 miles away. We wandered into his tiny shop on day two, craving sausages for the barbie. He’s this ruddy-faced chap with a handshake like a vice, regaling us with tales of his prize-winning porkers. “These bangers’ll make your hot tub weep with envy,” he winked, tossing in extra black pudding gratis. Couldn’t stop chuckling at his patter – proper old-school charm.

Then there was Mrs Hargreaves at the village tearoom, a sprightly widow in her eighties with a laugh like a foghorn. We popped in for elevenses, and she clocked our accents straight off. “Up from the smoke, are ya? Well, don’t go scaring the sheep!” She spun yarns about the local hunt balls and that time a fox pinched her best knickers off the line. Over scones slathered in clotted cream, she quizzed us on city life, eyes twinkling. “You lot rush about like headless chickens – try our pace, love, it’ll sort you right out.”

Even the postman, Jim, chipped in while we were faffing with the trampoline one afternoon. He pulled up on his bike, parcels dangling, and eyed our dog with suspicion. “That mutt looks shifty – seen him eyeing my lunch?” Turned out Jim’s a retired poacher-turned-gardener, full of tips on spotting otters in the stream half a mile off. His deadpan humour had us in stitches; he reckoned the hot tub was “posher than the vicar’s bath.”

Chatting with these quirky locals was the real highlight – they turned our stay into something alive and buzzing. Sat there one evening by the stove, hot tub steaming outside, I had a quiet moment reflecting: in the rush of daily grind, we forget how a natter with proper folk recharges the soul. No wonder the Cotswolds pulls you back. If you’re after a base like this, with characters who make you feel like family, it’s spot on. We left proper gutted, already plotting the return.