I’ll never forget the drive down to Dorset last month – we’d packed the car to bursting with wellies, wine and enough crisps to siege a castle, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into a muddy farm track just outside Dorchester. Proper heart-in-mouth stuff, sliding about like we were auditioning for a rally. But we made it, emerging caked in muck but laughing, and there it was: this gorgeous holiday cottage, all generous luxury en-suite rooms for the four of us, with a copper bath that screamed indulgence, a sleek wood-burning stove, and a dining terrace boasting a private wood-fired hot tub. First impressions? Blown away. It felt like stepping into someone’s dream pad, tucked away near Ansty, peaceful as you like.

We’d barely unpacked when old Bert from next door popped over with a welcome basket of local cider and eggs. Bloke must’ve been pushing 80, with a face like a weathered map of Dorset and stories that flowed like the River Frome. “You lot here for the fossils?” he winked, settling into a chair on our terrace as if he owned it. Turned out Bert’s a retired postman who’d cycled every inch of West Dorset, regaling us with tales of Jurassic hunts gone wrong – like the time he unearthed what he swore was a dinosaur toe, only for it to turn out as a cow hoof. We cracked up over that one, hot tub bubbling away as the sun dipped. Proper character, Bert was; made you feel like family straight off.

Next morning, we wandered into the village for a pint at the pub, where we met Sal, the landlady with a laugh that could wake the dead. She’s run the place for 30 years, knows every quirk of the locals. “Don’t go digging without permission,” she teased, pouring our pints with foam just right. “Last lot thought they’d strike gold in the garden – ended up with a bad back and a bill from the farmer.” Sal pulled us into a chat with her mate Reg, a wiry fisherman type who claimed to have hooked a shark off the Chesil Beach (five miles down the road, mind – we kept it local). Reg’s eyes lit up describing his epic battles with the tide, all while sketching fish on a beer mat. “It’s not the size of the catch, it’s the yarn you spin,” he grinned. We were hooked, swapping stories till closing time.

Even the dog walker we bumped into on a stroll round the lanes had a gem: grumpy old Mick with his spaniel, muttering about “tourists scaring the badgers.” But five minutes in, he was confessing how he’d once hidden from a bull in a hedge – “Hid so well, the bull gave up and went for tea.” Laugh? We howled.

Staring into that copper bath one evening, bubbles rising, I had a proper moment. Amid all the chatter and characters, I realised holidays like this aren’t about ticking off sights – it’s the Berts and Sals that stick. They weave you into the fabric of the place, leaving you fuller than any hot tub soak. Dorset’s magic? It’s the people, daft as a brush. Can’t wait to go back.