I’ll never forget the drive to our holiday spot in the Forest of Dean – sat nav insisting we were nearly there, only for us to end up splashing through a ford that wasn’t on the map. Turned out we’d taken a sneaky shortcut via some back lane in Awre, and my other half was convinced the car was about to swim away. A quick laugh, a U-turn, and we rolled up to this charming detached country cottage just as the sun dipped low over the Gloucestershire hills. From that first glimpse – all cosy and inviting, nestled right by the River Severn – I knew we’d struck gold. Paths snaking off from the front door promised lazy wanders, and being only 5 miles from the Forest of Dean proper had me buzzing with that proper holiday anticipation.

But honestly, it wasn’t the trails or the scenery that made the week – it was the locals, a proper quirky bunch who turned our stay into a string of brilliant yarns. First off, there was old Bert at the Dean Heritage Centre, just down the road. We popped in for a mooch around the exhibits, and he latched onto us like we were long-lost mates. “You from up Lunnon way?” he asked, eyeing my trainers. Turned out he’d spent 40 years in the forest mines, and over a cuppa in the café, he regaled us with tales of dodging cave-ins and smuggling cider underground. “Ghosts down there still whisperin’,” he winked, making my youngest giggle nervously. Proper storyteller, Bert was – had us in stitches about the time he “borrowed” a pony for a joyride.

Then, wandering those well-marked paths by the Severn, we bumped into Madge, a wiry pensioner with a dog that looked older than her. She was out picking blackberries, basket overflowing, and insisted we try her “secret recipe” scone later. We ended up at her garden gate for tea – turns out her hubby was the village postman for decades, knew everyone’s business. “That river’s got more stories than the Bible,” she cackled, spinning yarns about floods that turned Awre into an island and the time a seal swam up from the estuary. Her laugh was infectious, all gravelly and warm, and she slipped us a jar of bramble jam on the way out. Proper heart of gold.

The next day, we hired bikes from Cannop Cycle Centre – only 5 miles off – and who should we meet pedalling back but Terry, the cycle hire bloke himself, out testing a tandem. “Fancy a go?” he grinned, helmet askew. He was a hoot, full of Forest lore: how the deer here outsmart tourists by nicking picnics, and his failed attempt at paddleboarding at Mallards Pike nearby (“Ended up channelling my inner duck!”). We chatted for ages about Go Ape treetop antics – he swore it’d test my nerves more than his mother-in-law’s cooking.

Looking back, sat here now with a cuppa, I realise I spent half the holiday just nattering with these characters, not ticking off lists. In a world of rushing about, their easy chat and daft tales were the real recharge. If you’re after a proper escape in the Forest of Dean, find yourself a spot like that cottage in Awre – but don’t miss the locals. They’re the magic.